


found out

by applecrumbledore (orphan_account)



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-10
Updated: 2015-09-13
Packaged: 2018-04-03 20:15:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 19,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4113538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/applecrumbledore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Bitty, you have finally rose to the rank of ‘bad roommate who brings people home and has loud sex,’ and we love it. It’s lonely here at the top. And now, you’ve joined us.”</p><p>No one notices Jack, at the far end of the table, staring at his bacon.</p><p>[A bunch of ways in which everyone finds out. Update: en français.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. sound

**Author's Note:**

> i was thinking of all the ways the team could find out about jack n bitty, so this is the first one, and i'm gonna see how many i can do! also taking requests/ideas.
> 
>  
> 
> edit: there's a part 2 to this "series" now, [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4276527), cause one fic was too long to just be a chapter. but they're in no particular order.

 

Bitty practices not smiling in the bathroom mirror. In the time it takes him to brush his teeth, he thinks he’s got it.

Jack left for the dining hall ten minutes ago but he still texts him _I’m on my way!_ when he leaves the Haus and gets a thumbs up emoji in return, which he finds appallingly charming. It’s freezing cold out and by the time he gets to the dining hall, his ears are numb. He’s mostly been able to stop smiling.

He pulls his toque off as he reaches their team table.

“Mornin’ y’all—”

He's greeted with thunderous applause and half a dozen wide grins. Ransom and Holster hoot and scramble out of their seats to clap him on the back.

“We are _so_ proud of you, bro!”

He looks frantically to Jack, who’s seated at the far end of the table with his hat pulled down, pointedly not taking place in any celebrations.

“Proud?” They can’t _know!_

“You have finally rose to the rank of ‘bad roommate who brings people home and has loud sex,’ and we love it.”

“It’s lonely here at the top. And now, Bitty, you’ve joined us.”

“That is _not_ something we need more of.”

“C’mon, Shits! This is a momentous occasion!”

You can pinpoint the exact second that Bitty realizes what they’re saying, and he goes so red he gets dizzy.

“I—what are y’all—I didn’t—I can’t believe—”

_Mortified_ doesn't begin to cover it. Bitty isn't sure his heart has ever beat so quickly and so hard and he thinks he might pass out—he thinks of everything that happened last night and God, what did they hear? He's dead. All their talks about not coming out yet and they thought they were so smart and it's not like he cares about himself, everyone knows, but—

"So, who was it?" Ransom asks. "Was it British Boy? Do you owe us big time for our flawless matchmaking?"

Bitty's heart stops.

They don't know who he was with.

That's why they aren't bugging _Jack_.

"Yeah, we didn't see any shoes by the door, but we figured you were too smart for that." Holster waggles his eyebrows.

"Oh, sorry," Ransom says to Bitty. "Sit. Eat. Breakfast first, sexcapades later."

"Oh my God," Bitty groans, and slides into a seat next to Shitty, who is strangely quiet. "I’m not hungry. We are _not_ talking about this."

"Aw, bro! Don't be embarrassed!" 

Chowder, on Ransom's other side, looks incredibly interested in the exchange, and at the same time, guilty for seeming interested. "Yeah! Don't let it bug you, Bitty, I think it's— _oh!_ Sorry, was I not supposed to know? They already told me!"

Ransom and Holster get back into their seats. "We're not like, making fun of you. Sharing deets is a Haus tradition! A _bro_ tradition."

"I don't think I could be called a bro by any stretch of the imagination."

"Dude, you're our bro," Holster says seriously. "You're on the team. Baking and being adorable doesn't give you a _get out of bro free card_."

"Yeah, don't be embarrassed. I mean. The number of times you've heard _us_ bringing people home, this was overdue. We deserved it."

"Ugh." Bitty buries his face in his hands. "I don't—how bad was it? Did you hear—"

"Not like, everything. You've got the _squeakiest_ bed springs, dude."

"Oh my _God_ ," Bitty says again, through a chorus of laughter. "Y'all are ruthless, I'm never doing this again."

Shitty bumps his shoulder into his. "Getting chirped for having loud sex is—"

"We weren't _loud!"_

"—part of the quintessential college experience. Don't let these prying assholes," Shitty says, tipping his coffee cup at a sniggering Ransom and Holster, "discourage your, you know. Sexual expression."

Everyone is quiet for a moment. You could fry an egg on Bitty's face. At the far end of the table, Jack stares at his bacon.

"So," Ransom says slowly, "it _was_ the rugby guy, right? And we're the best matchmakers ever?"

"Bro, we should congratulate him when we see him in lecture today," Holster interrupts, "let him know that we're down. Bitty, did you tell him that dating you means dating the whole team? He'd better be cool."

"Don't you dare!" Bitty yelps.

"Bro, we won't embarrass you, we just—"

"It wasn't him! And I'm not dating anyone!"

Everyone's eyebrows raise as synchronized as if they'd coordinated it.

"I—didn't know you knew guys outside of the team. Oh my God, was it a Tinder thing? A _Grindr_ thing?"

Bitty covers his face again. "No! H-he's in one of my classes, you wouldn't know him."

"Bro, we know everybody. I'm probably Facebook friends with him. What's his name? Another sports dude? Tell me it's not some lacrosse bro."

"I'm not telling you! You'd post on his wall, or make him a 'congrats on the sex' card," Bitty says into his hands. "It's no one. I'm sorry you heard and I hope I didn't wake y'all up and _conversation over."_

"It must have been bad," Holster pretends to whisper. Ransom leans in.

"It didn't _sound_ like it was bad."

"Jesus Christ, you two!" Lardo yells from Shitty's other side. "Cut the poor kid some slack, what the fuck." Bitty risks a thankful glance at her and she jabs her knife at Ransom and Holster. "They must be jealous, 'cause I haven't heard _them_ bragging about any conquests lately."

The two stutter an excuse; 'bro' count: 5, 'finals' count: 7.

"C'mon, we're sorry," Ransom apologizes, and it sounds genuine. "We were just bugging you, we'll stop. It's not a big deal."

"And it's cool! Our little baker out there breaking hearts. We're proud of you, dude."

Bitty groans and drops his head on the table. "Please don't be."

Later, no one can remember exactly when Jack left the table.

 

Shitty finds Jack in his room late that night after a day's worth of unanswered or tersely answered texts. Shitty was stoned a couple hours ago but he's coming down now and everything is easy and fuzzy and nice, which is the exact opposite of how Jack looks when Shitty sticks his head into his room from the bathroom. He's sitting in front of his laptop like someone who had only read about one in books: unnatural, uncomfortable, and not actually using it at all.

Shitty opens with, "You look troubled, my friend," and leans on the door frame.

Jack jumps at the sound of his voice, rare after so many years of his barging in. He glares, but out of Jack's vast arsenal of glares, this is the one that shows the most uncertainty; it reaches his eyes and makes his gaze unsteady, even after all his media training.

"I'm fine," he says, looking back at his screen. "Just busy."

"And that's why I haven't seen you around all day?"

"Yeah. You've got a thesis project too, in case you forgot."

"Sure." He comes carefully into the room, wants to say _don't make this about me_ , but if he knows Jack, and he does, this isn't like any conversation they've had before. Not sober, anyways. "You were too busy to finish your breakfast, then?"

Jack sighs angrily out his nose. On his lap, his hands tense and, voice low, he warns, "Shitty ..."

"Listen." Shitty sits on Jack's bed and looks at him, the wide slope of his shoulders and his sharp profile. "You know me, man. And I know you. And if this is honest to God a conversation you don't want to have, this isn't like, a _deets_ situation. Tell me to go, and I’m gone."

He waits. Jack doesn't turn to face him or speak. Shitty goes to their bathroom and gets a glass of water for his cottonmouth and comes back, sits on the bed again. Jack's laptop screen shows the abstract for an article on the politics of Maurice Duplessis, and he hasn't scrolled since Shitty walked in. He's learned to check.

Shitty waits another few moments, then goes for it.

"Where were you last night?"

To Jack's credit, he doesn't flinch, but he doesn't say anything, either. He must know where this is going, with Shitty's mention of deets and opting out.

But he still says, "Sleeping."

"Here?"

Jack slowly spins around in his desk chair, and looks almost scary when lit from behind. He has none of Bad Bob's charming Québécois dopiness and all of his mom's angles and fire.

"Yes," Jack tries, and Shitty gives up. He sighs, takes a drink of water, and offers the wet glass to Jack, who shakes his head. He stretches to put it on the edge of his desk, then clasps his hands between his knees.

"Okay," he starts, "this is what I know: it was midnight. My show ended downstairs. Rans and Holster had gone to bed. I come upstairs. I can hear Bitty. I go into the bathroom, whatever, knock on your door."

He searches Jack's face, staring at the ground. He doesn't look angry and that is, honestly, a surprise. He doesn't look like he feels like the world is ending. He looks horrified, but in a ‘mom and dad are telling me about the birds and the bees’ kind of way.

"No answer," Shitty goes on. "Light's on. I go inside and your door to the hall's shut, but your window's open, so. I stick my head out. And Bitty's window's open too."

Shitty can count on one hand the things he loves more than making Jack Zimmermann blush. It was easy when they were frogs, but now he has to work for it. If Jack really hadn't wanted to talk about it, they wouldn't be taking about it, so Shitty's conscious is clear. He leans back on his hands.

"You're lucky. Rans and Holster's room's farther away. They heard bed stuff and sex stuff." He grins; Jack looks up at him. "Only I heard the whispering of some sweet, sweet French-Canadian nothings."

He thinks it's sort of nice that Jack looks a lot like Bitty did that morning, one step away from internal combustion. He rubs his hand over his knee, rhythmically, nervous, and his eyes do that thing they do when he's searching for words. He clears his throat.

"I'm, um. Not the only Francophone on campus?"

"Jack Laurent fucking Zimmermann," Shitty says through his teeth. Jack looks up, manages to meet his eyes. "Say that again to my goddamn face."

Jack doesn't even try. Shitty scoots forward on the bed.

"You show up late to breakfast so jittery and stupid you almost drop your plate, the boys talk about him and you pull that stupid hat so low down over your eyes you couldn't see, and don't you _dare_ try to tell me I can't recognize your fucking voice."

The look on Jack's face changes; if there's anything he knows, it's when he's beat. He rubs his eyes and leans back in his chair, which creaks under his weight.

Shitty draws his legs up onto the bed and sits cross legged, sleepover style.

"How long's it been?" he asks, quietly, in case anyone's listening. It takes Jack a moment or two and his voice is the smallest thing in the world.

"Eight days."

"Jesus fuck. That's a fresh wound."

"Yeah."

"You doing okay?"

"Yeah."

"Is _he_ doing okay?"

"I hope so."

Part of Shitty can't believe Jack's actually talking about it. He has time to be overwhelmed by what a staggering show of trust this is later.

"How'd it happen?"

Jack takes his hands off his eyes and sits up, jaw set. Shitty adds, "Abridged version," and Jack sighs again, like he'll never stop.

"I ... couldn't sleep, last week. I went out onto the roof and he saw and came out too, and—I don't know. We didn't talk about hockey. Or family. Or me. And, I don't know, I just sort of—kissed him." He looks almost comically embarrassed and keeps cracking his knuckles. "Then it just ... went from there." He looks back at his hands. "Are you surprised?"

Shitty snorts back a laugh.

"Honestly? Not one fucking bit, dude. I am no stranger to the Jack Zimmermann school of 'chirping as flirting only if they notice and reciprocate.' You're pretty transparent."

Jack laughs thinly. "He didn't think so."

"Well, the kid was terrified of you for the first year you knew each other. What was he supposed to think? To the untrained eye, you  _exude_ heterosexuality."

"I guess. I ... don't know. You get it. I was mad. I've spent so much time hiding just so I can play hockey in peace, and this guy comes along and he's—he's _Bitty_ , and he's not afraid, and he can still play, and I know it’s not—well. You were there." He rubs the back of his neck. "I'm an asshole. We've talked about it."

"I bet." Shitty tips his head. "Have you talked to him about this morning?"

"Not ... yet."

_"Brah."_

"I know. I was going to. And then," he sweeps his hand out, "this."

"Yeah, and it's been what, twelve whole hours since breakfast? My bad." Shitty rolls his eyes.

"I know, I know." Jack shifts in his chair. "So, uh. The guys don't know it was me?"

"I think you could fuck Bitty in front of them and they'd ask him who he was taking to Winter Screw."

_"Hey."_

"I'm not saying they're dumb! They're some of the smartest bros I know, just maybe—not the most receptive when it comes to interpersonal relationships. Other people's, anyways." Shitty unfolds his legs and stands. "I'll get out of your hair. Bitty got home an hour ago."

"I know."

“Right. Uh, you ... you do _like_ Bits, right? ‘Cause if you’re just lookin’ to get your dick wet I can suggest _thousands_ of people whose hearts I wouldn’t care if you broke.”

“I’m not a monster,” Jack says to his hands, although it’s a conversation he’s had with himself hundreds of times, and the _not_ camp isn’t always the one that wins. But it’s never about Bitty. “I mean, you’ve met him.”

“That I have.” Shitty smirks. “You’re so fucked.”

“I know.”

“The great Canadian hockey robot, demolished by a tiny southern baker.”

“He’s not _tiny_.”

“Comparatively.”

Shitty goes to leave, but Jack moves like he wants to say something, so he waits, because he knows it isn’t always easy for him. He helps.

“You’re sure, bro?”

Jack sighs and it sounds like the quiet, sweet way that dogs sound when they sigh, a little defeated; the comparison reminds Shitty that he’s still stoned.

“When I’m around him,” Jack says quietly, “I don’t think about anything else.”

This wouldn’t have been an important statement coming from everyone, but Shitty knows what Jack must displace in his mind to keep Bitty there, the things he worries about every day, the little things and big things that press anxiety down on him. That anyone can let him forget that is huge. Shitty tries not to get emotional.

"You know what—thanks for talking about this, man."

"Yeah, yeah," Jack says, waving his hand as he stands. 

"No, I'm fuckin' serious, dude, thank you. Bring it the fuck in."

He spreads his arms out and despite Jack's halfhearted _no no no_ he gives him a bear hug and buries his face in his shoulder. After a moment, Jack hugs him back, sagging into him and it's like Shitty can feel relief oozing out his pores.

"Thanks, Shits," he says by his ear, unabashedly honest. Shitty grins.

"Yeah, you big fucking softie." He lets him go and yanks on his sleeve to get him to move towards the hallway door. "Go see Bitty."

"Yeah." Jack heads for the door, then stops. "Uh, you don't—when you heard me, you didn't—"

"Bud, you know I don't speak French."

"I thought maybe you ... uh, Google Translate, or ..."

"Christ! Who do you think I am?" Shitty laughs. "Get the fuck out of here."

"Okay, okay. I'm going."

 

He raps softly on Bitty’s door and it takes Bitty a second to answer.

“Come in.” He sounds far away.

Jack steps halfway into the room, letting Bitty see him before he barges in. He’s lying on his bed in his Samwell hoodie and boxer briefs with his earphones in. Jack isn’t used to the way that being in Bitty’s bedroom makes him feel now, all tight-chested and funny, because he recognizes the way it smells as the way _Bitty_ smells, and he’s got those lights up on the wall that make everything soft and relaxing, and he’s still not used to a space being infused with so much of one person.

“Hey.”

“Hi.” Bitty pulls one of his earphones out and sits up on his elbows, but doesn’t get out of bed. Jack doesn’t think he looks mad—which is good, because Jack isn’t sure exactly what he did wrong, if anything, and he doesn’t _think_ he did anything wrong, and what happened this morning is just something they have to ... de-brief on.

“How’s it going?” Jack tries, and Bitty chuckles.

“Good. Come in. Sit.”

Bitty shuffles up and fluffs his pillows behind his back, and Jack comes towards him, bends down and kisses him. Bitty makes a quiet, happy noise in the back of his throat and kisses him back, ghosting hands over his arms.

“Hi,” he says again, dazed, and Jack says, “Hi.”

Jack sits next to him, his legs over the side of the bed, bare feet on the floor. Bitty touches his back lightly and he sighs.

“Uh, about this morning.”

“Right. Ugh. What a—for lack of a more delicate phrase, _shit show_.”

Jack laughs and Bitty looks proud of himself.

“Definitely a shit show.” Jack touches the back of his hand to Bitty’s leg. “Have the chirps died down, or ...”

“Somewhat.” Bitty shrugs. “Ransom and Holster are convinced that it was that guy they set me up with, so most of it is trying to get me to admit how great they are.”

“Hm. Sounds about right, eh?”

“Yeah.”

They fall silent. Bitty runs his hand down Jack’s arm and laces their fingers, and Jack stares at their joined hands and tries to remember if they’ve held hands before. It seems absurd, what with the night before, but holding hands is a strange and different kind of intimacy than sex. He thinks maybe they’ve held hands once, the day after they kissed, in the kitchen when no one was around.

“Shitty knows it was me,” he says suddenly. Bitty raises his eyebrows.

“Did you _tell_ him?”

“He, uh, heard me saying something in French. While ...” He trails off.

"Oh. _That_." Bitty’s ears go red. “That must have been lucky timing. Or, unlucky, I guess.”

“He went looking for me in my room and stuck his head out the window. Your window was open.”

“Oh, God, it was, wasn’t it?” Bitty rubs his face. “We’re lucky they didn’t hear us in the _street_. Oh _lord,_ what if they did?”

“I think we’re okay. I mean, I didn’t think you were—it didn’t seem as loud as they said, I mean you weren’t—” He shakes his head. “Never mind. Just thin walls, I think. This place is falling down.”

“Hm.” Bitty looks at their hands, Jack’s thick, pale palm again his own, small and tan and faintly freckled. It’s hardly been a week and he’s still wrapping his head around the idea of Jack and him, like this. It seems like someone else’s life, someone else who’s secretly dating 'Canada's prodigal son,' like he’s floating above them and watching the way Jack’s angled towards him, the way he rubs his thumb over the back of his hand. “What did Shitty say?”

“That he already knew. Apparently I’m pretty obvious.”

“As if.”

“That’s what I said.” Jack scoots closer until his back is against Bitty’s legs, his head turned to look at him. “Anyways, he hugged me, so. I guess we’re good.”

“Of course you’re good,” Bitty scoffs, “as if Shitty would ever give you a hard time. That man is a living saint.”

Jack nods. “He is.” He looks at Bitty, all swaddled up in his hoodie, comfortable and warm and scrubbed-clean for bed, and he leans in and kisses him. Bitty kisses him back and tugs on the front of his thin, old shirt until he moves closer and presses him up against the wall behind his bed. Jack thinks about the other night, all sweat and Bitty’s heels beating faintly against the small of his back and hands digging into his trapezius, and he feels lightheaded.

“I’m sorry I didn’t say anything this morning,” he apologizes against his cheek. “I shouldn’t have let you deal with it, but I didn’t—”

“No, _shh_ , shut up.” Bitty kisses him once, twice, hands brushing his throat. “What were you supposed to do, come out in front of everyone? Like that would’ve helped. They would’ve dog-piled me. And then I’d be dead.”

“I know. It just felt ... weird, sitting there, having them talk about some guy, when I’m ...”

“Are you jealous?” Bitty smirks.

_“No.”_ Jack says sternly. “That’s stupid, you don’t even like him.”

“No, but they all think I do,” Bitty teases, flicking Jack’s hair out of his eyes. “Are you jealous of his imaginary limelight? You want people to chirp _you_ about being Bitty’s boyfriend?”

Jack’s gaze drops to his shoulder. “No. Yes.”

“Hmm.” Bitty laughs. “Well, every single time someone doubts me, or acts surprised that I’m on the hockey team, I want to scream _I’m dating Jack Zimmermann_ in their stupid face. But I don’t.” He kisses him again. “And that’s okay.”

“That would be really funny. Maybe you should start doing that.”

“Dummy. C’mere.” Bitty scoots over and Jack sits next to him, stretching his legs out. Bitty pushes his cheek into his shoulder and Jack puts his hand on his thigh.

“Someday you can scream that in whoever’s face you want,” Jack says. “It might be sort of rude, but that’s up to you.”

Bitty leans back and squints at him, grinning. “Someday?”

“Uh—”

“One week in and the illustrious Jack Zimmermann is already making plans. Think you’re coming on a little strong?”

Jack tries to hide his embarrassment, but he can’t stop smiling. “Says the guy who asked me about ‘our song’ yesterday?”

“Oh, you shush!”

“Quality chirps from Bittle.”

“Shh. Be nice.” Bitty buries his face in Jack’s arm and Jack squeezes his leg. “What am I supposed to do with you.”

“Do you want me to answer that?”

_“Shhh!”_

 

 


	2. shirt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shitty scratches his mustache and, after a spell, says, "Whose shirt is that, Bits?" and Bitty almost knocks over the carton of half-and-half.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi again! thanks for all the nice words, everyone

Bitty's favourite day of the week is Tuesday. On Tuesdays, they don't have practice. Ransom and Holster have class together at eight in the morning, and Shitty has a weekly meeting with his thesis advisor at half past. Jack doesn't have class until noon. Bitty's first class starts at eleven. And so they have the Haus to themselves, and the morning to lie in bed and walk around in varying states of undress and, maybe in the future, Bitty thinks, they could shower together. It wouldn't be sanitary or efficient and Bitty hasn't brought it up yet, but he's not ruling it out because the thought of it drives him nuts.

This Tuesday, he wakes up at half eight to sun streaming past his bad Venetian blinds and Jack's sleeping face pressed into his chest. Jack doesn't exactly fit into his bed—one of his legs is bent with his bare foot is pressed to the wall—but he spends more nights here with Bitty as opposed to bringing Bitty to his room, because they'd already had one sitcom-esque situation where Shitty had burst into Jack's room from the bathroom and Bitty hid under Jack's quilt until the coast was clear.

So Jack is in Bitty's bed, an arm over his waist, softly sighing sleeping breaths into his sternum. Bitty stays there a while, careful not to wake him, not thinking about his assignment deadlines or what he's going to major in or their game next week, just Jack Zimmermann and last night and the night before that one, and before that one, and so on, and he smiles to himself. He thinks of all the cute, weird things he's learned about Jack lately: that during a fit of daddy-issue rebellion when he was nine years old, he had briefly joined a soccer team; that he really likes donuts but doesn't let himself eat them because they're so high in calories; that he's always wanted to go to Newfoundland and Labrador but has never been.

He lies in bed stroking the back of Jack's neck—he's a heavy sleeper—until he has to pee and carefully extracts himself from under Jack's arm and rolls onto his feet. He pulls on a pair of briefs and grabs Jack's red Samwell Hockey t-shirt off the back of his desk chair for lack of anything closer or easier. He picks up Señor Bun from the floor next to his desk where he'd fallen last night and sets him on his pillow next to Jack's head.

He pads to the bathroom on bare feet, pees and brushes his teeth, so dozy he almost puts hand soap on his tooth brush. He revels in the silence of the Haus and creeps downstairs to start coffee, already making plans to bring a cup up to Jack and get back into bed with him, then drink coffee and kiss and maybe fool around until they've woken up enough for breakfast, which he'll make them, and Jack'll lean against the counter by the stove wearing just sweatpants and he'll keep an eye on the hash browns so they don't burn, and he'll glow sleepy and perfect and golden in the morning sun. Bitty can see it. It's going to be glorious.

He starts the old plastic coffee maker and gets two mugs out, and presses his face to the window to try and see what on Earth is in their yard, is that a kiddie pool? He can't tell. It's around the corner. He swirls around the kitchen checking for breakfast fixings while the coffee percolates, and he sings softly to himself, _I love your long shadows, and your gunpowder eyes. I love your long shadows and your gunpowder eyes._

"Bits?"

He jumps a foot in the air.

Shitty stands in the kitchen doorway in his underwear, two textbooks under his arm and a pencil behind his ear, his eyebrows raised. Bitty tries not to look earth-shatteringly disappointed.

"Shitty! Wh-what are you doing here? Don't you have your, um, advisor meeting?"

"Advisor's out of town this week," Shitty says slowly, looking Bitty up and down. "Whatcha doing? You don't have class?"

"I don't start 'til late on Tuesdays." Bitty turns his back to him and busies his hands getting the sugar pot, turning the handles of their two coffee cups in the same direction.

"Hmm." Shitty comes into the kitchen and sets his books on the table, then leans on it, his flow tangled but shining brilliantly. Bitty sees him watching him out of the corner of his eye. He scratches his mustache and, after a spell, says, "Whose shirt is that, Bits?"  and Bitty almost knocks over the carton of half-and-half.

"Mine."

"Yeah? 'Cause we all only get one of the red ones, and I didn't think yours was that big."

Bitty laughs, turning to face Shitty. He plucks at his giant shirt as if just noticing. "Wow, oh my God, you're right. I can't believe I didn't notice, I thought it was my other red shirt. Must've been a laundry mix up."

Shitty leaves his textbooks on the table and walks up to Bitty to grab a third mug from the drying rack.

"You, uh, smell like Old Spice," he quips lightly, not looking at Bitty. Bitty can see him trying not to smirk.

"I wear Old Spice," he says stiffly.

"I happen to know that you wear Foxcrest Old Spice. You brought it up last week. And if I'm not mistaken—" Shitty leans in and Bitty yelps, backing up against the counter. "—that's Old Spice Original."

Bitty's ears go red. Shitty crosses his arms. The coffee maker gurgles.

"Deodorant mix up?" Bitty croaks.

"Nice try."

Bitty's mouth opens and closes as he tries to think of any non-humiliating way to get out of this. He should have known that Shitty of all people would be the first to find out; sometimes Bitty feels like Shitty knows everything, especially everything to do with Jack. Bitty slumps in defeat.

"Why do you know which deodorant he wears?"

"We share a bathroom, bro. And I get all up in his personal space a lot." Shitty grins. "Looks like I'm not the only one."

Bitty's first thought is that blushing is going to clash terribly with this red shirt. His second thought is that Jack is going to _destroy_ him. He covers his face and groans into his hands and Shitty laughs, loud and bright, and claps him on the back.

"Please don't tell Jack," Bitty mumbles into his hands.

"I'm gonna assume based on how red your face is that you _didn't_ just steal one of Jack's dirty shirts, and you _are_ , in fact, doin' the dirty."

"I wouldn't steal his clothes!"

"Bingo."

Bitty groans and leans back on the counter, running his hands through his sleep-mussed hair.

"I thought you were out," he admits, "I wouldn't just wear his stuff around the Haus."

"I know. And I'm sorry for sneaking up on you." Shitty's mouth quirks into a smile. "But, like—even without the shirt, bro, you had _two_ mugs on the counter, I think you have a hickey, and you fucking  _reek_ of sex."

"Oh my _God!"_ Bitty buries his face in his hands. "Oh my God, Shitty, please don't tell the team. They'll chirp me into next _year_ , they'll chirp me until the day I die. I'll be gettin' get group texts from y'all when I'm forty years old."

"Bro, chill, chill, I won't. Ye of little faith." Shitty peers around his shoulder. "Coffee done?"

Bitty checks. "Not yet."

"You gotta go upstairs?"

"No," Bitty says to the floor. "He's asleep."

"Nice."

They lean next to each other at the counter, Bitty's acute embarrassment fading away to relief because finally, finally, someone knows, and someone he can talk to.

"You didn't know?" he asks Shitty.

"Nope. I mean, I knew Jack liked guys. He told me about—" Shitty stops, a second too late.

"Him and Kent?"

"Oh, good, he told you about Parse. Good." Shitty nods in approval. "Dang."

"Yeah." Bitty plays with the worn hem of Jack's shirt. "It's nice that he, um. Wants to tell me anything, about himself. He's so ..." He makes a frustrated noise at the thousand words of varying appropriateness and relevancy that could fit there, _confusing, enigmatic, intimidating, terrifying, gorgeous, flexible._ "... Well. You know Jack."

"So do you."

"I like him a lot," Bitty says quickly, and Shitty laughs at him, but not like it's a joke. "Wow, sorry. That was so high school."

"Nah, brah, I get it. He's older than me and he could bench press twice my weight, but I wanna like pick him up in my arms like he's Olive Oyl and not let him feel one more fucking ounce of sadness ever in his life."

"Yeah," Bitty agrees softly.

"And it's not like the guy _needs_ protecting, but God fucking dammit, it's hard not to try."

"Yeah," Bitty says again, thinking vividly of Jack lying tangled in his bed, the way the muscles in his back look when his arms are folded under the pillow, in his own striped sunbeam. He knows exactly what Shitty means, but maybe in a different way. "He's doin' good, I think."

Shitty plucks at the sleeve of Bitty's shirt. "I think he's doing fucking _great_ , dude."

Bitty laughs, feels his face heat up again. "Thanks, Shitty."

"Any time, friend." He bumps Bitty's shoulder. "But, I gotta say, I totally expected to catch you guys gently napping together or holding hands or some cutesy shit like that. You are _not_ the sweet southern belle you led us to believe, Eric Bittle."

Bitty sputters. "I—I don't know what—you're not my mama, Shitty B. Knight."

"But I _am_ your mama's friend on Facebook, and if I happened to drunk-message her to say her baby boy's been getting sloppy with Zimmermann the Younger, I couldn't be held responsible for the flurry of excited Bad Bob-related voicemails she leaves you."

_"Shitty!"_

"Kidding! I'm fucking kidding, Bits, chill." He puts an arm around Bitty and shakes him, squeezes him amiably against his side. "We both know she'd do that, though. She'd do that _hard."_

"Maybe."

"Don't worry about it, bro. Coffee's done." Shitty slips around him to pull the carafe from the machine and pour into their three waiting mugs. "Bring your boy some caffeine. Roll around in the sun. I'll go work at the library, you can have the Haus."

"Oh, no, no, you don't have to—"

"No, dude, I insist. You come down here all smiley n' shit, wearing his fucking shirt like the cutest shit I've ever seen in my life, I can't wreck that. Couldn't live with myself."

Bitty is, predictably, touched. His Tuesday plans fall back into place, hash browns and nudity and all.

"Wow, Shitty, thank you. That's really nice of you."

Shitty shrugs happily. "What can I say? I'm a paragon of virtue." He lifts his mug from the counter and sips it. "Gimme a sec to put some clothes on and I'm out."

"Alright. Text me when you're on your way back and I'll have a pie or ten waiting for you." Bitty grins.

"Now _you're_ the paragon of virtue," Shitty says from the doorway before he disappears upstairs.

Bitty puts cream and sugar in his own coffee and a tiny bit of sugar in Jack's and climbs back upstairs, and when he pushes his door open with his foot he sees Jack, still fast asleep, with his face buried in his pillow and his arm around Señor Bun, and he thinks, _this boy._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> there's a part 2 to this "series" now, [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4276527), cause the next fic i wrote was too long to just be a chapter! READ IT


	3. spin the bottle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “God, you guys are thirsty,” Lardo laughs. “Starts out all truth, truth, then a couple beers in, bam! We’re making out like a bunch of horny fuckin’ teenagers.”
> 
> “Gotta give sports bros their acceptable ‘no homo’ outlet or they go nuts,” Shitty says knowingly. “It’s all buddy-buddy ‘til the chips are down.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> another one!!! laden with thirst. pretty short. mostly dialogue.

“Bits, truth or spin?”

“Truth!”

“Uh—tell us a secret you know about Jack, _GO!”_

“Um! Uh! He has a crush on Nicki Minaj! I showed him her videos and he said all this stuff about how beautiful she is!”

_“Bittle!”_

“If you hadn’t said anything, they would have thought I was joking! You did this to yourself!”

Everyone’s laughing too hard to protect Bitty from Jack’s glare, even Bitty, who’s laughing into his hands so hard he can’t breathe. Jack, Bitty, Ransom, Holster, Shitty and Lardo are sitting on the floor of the living room in a circle, surrounded by pillows and crumbs from pie crusts and dozens of empty cans of Natty Light.

“Who invented this fucking game?” Lardo laughs, wiping her eyes. “Fuckin’ unbelievable.”

“You’re _welcome_ ,” Shitty says from next to her. “It’s my baby. All the fun of truth or dare, except instead of sprinting around naked, you’re making out. All the fun of spin the bottle, except with a veto.”

“You’re a genius, bro.”

“Why haven’t we been doing this all year?”

“Because it would get weird _real_ fast.”

Bitty giggles and taps his—third? fourth?—beer can against his teeth, resting on his drawn-up knees. He sticks his tongue out at Jack, sitting across the circle from him, and Jack looks away. Holster slaps Bitty on the back.

“So, are you loving this, or what, Bits? Gettin’ macked on by so many strapping dudes?”

Ransom puts his chin on Holster’s shoulder. “Honestly, we’re so hot, I assume you’re just constantly at half mast. From our presence, and muscles, and great butts.”

“Oh my God, no!”

“It’s okay Bitty, we’re not judging you. It’s gotta be tough, right? Being in the presence of this beauty?”

“Seriously, Bits, get up on this whenever. Don’t let your love not speak its name. Touch my butt.”

“Y’all better stop making fun of me, _you’re_ the ones who wanted to do this!”

Shitty, on Bitty’s other side, waves his hands. “Okay, okay, chill! There can be no animosity during Truth or Spin. Rans, Holtzy, Bitty doesn’t have a boner. Bitty, they wouldn’t care if you _did_ have a boner.”

“I don’t—”

“Okay! Next! Holster: truth or spin?”

“Uh, spin, obviously. Who am I to deny you guys _this?”_ He gestures at himself and spills some of his beer and Ransom snorts when he laughs.

“Alright, alright, wise guy, let’s go.”

He reaches out and spins the empty bottle of Heineken in the middle of their circle. He takes a slug of his beer as the bottle whips around, slows, and stops on—Jack.

Jack’s ears go red. “Oh my God.”

_“Yes.”_

“Holy shit.”

Jack, so far, has managed to not get kissed, by the grace of some god. He’s only had half a beer and he’s extremely aware of what’s going on in a way his teammates aren’t, all of them anywhere between three and ten beer deep, and he’s not nervous, no, but it’s awkward, and worse, _he’s_ awkward.

And Holster’s grinning at him.

Lardo shakes Jack’s knee. “Knew you couldn’t get out of it forever, son.”

“Honestly, I can’t even believe you’re here.”

“It’s his last semester, he’s bro-bonding.” Holster gets up on his knees to come over. “Jack, I know you’re sensitive. _Shh._ It’ll be okay.”

“I’m not _sensitive_.”

“Jack, you’re as delicate as freshly fallen snow. It’s okay. I’ll be gentle.”

Jack grimaces and puts his beer down, which is something, at least, and Holster sits on his knees in front of him.

“No, no, no, sit next to him, you’re blocking the view.”

_“Shitty,_ ” Jack tries, but Holster listens to him and fits between Jack and Lardo, and before Jack can think of some way to get out of it, Holster puts his hands on his face and kisses him. The edge of his glasses gets Jack in the eye and their noses smush together, but Holster tips his head and after they manage to figure it out, Jack actually _kisses him back_ and everyone gasps.

Jack’s eyes are squeezed shut and he can’t tell who reverently whispers, “This is something I did not know I wanted.”

But then Holster runs his tongue along his bottom lip and he shoves him back, and he falls into Lardo laughing and laughing.

“Mister Zimmermann, I do believe I’m gettin’ the _vapours_.”

Jack rolls his eyes and passes the back of his hand over his mouth, but he’s smiling, and Holster’s grinning so wide you can see all his teeth. He settles back down next to Bitty and presses their heads together to whisper, “You mad, Bits?” and Bitty jams his elbow into his ribs.

Ransom says, “Jack, I don’t think I have ever seen you kiss another human being, ever. That was fucked.”

“That was _hot.”_

“Okay! Let’s keep it in our pants.” Shitty claps his hands together. “Next! Rans, truth or spin?”

“Definitely spin.”

“God, you guys are _thirsty,”_ Lardo laughs. “Starts out all truth, truth, then a couple beers in, _bam!_ We’re making out like a bunch of horny fuckin’ teenagers.”

“Gotta give sports bros their acceptable ‘no homo’ outlet or they go nuts,” Shitty says knowingly. “It’s all buddy-buddy ‘til the chips are down.”

“Okay, okay, gender studies boy,” Ransom gripes. “Let’s work on making this _less_ weird, yeah?”

“When have I ever made anything _less_ weird, brah.”

Ransom spins the bottle so hard it veers off centre and whirls, whirls, and lands on—Bitty. Who jumps. “Good lord.”

“Ohh, Bits.” Ransom grins and puts his beer down. “You’re welcome in advance.”

“Oh my God, Ransom, please be—”

Ransom knocks Holster out of the way to get to Bitty, who uses every ounce of his willpower not to meet him halfway. He grabs Bitty’s face in both hands and smashes their lips together, and their teeth hit and Bitty laughs against his mouth, going beet red. Ransom kisses him hard and his hands look gigantic on Bitty’s face, and when the kiss becomes open-mouthed, everyone (almost everyone) hoots and screams. Bitty clings to the front of his shirt and tries to keep up, tries not to die, tries not to groan—and then as quickly as Ransom was there, he’s gone, and lets Bitty go and sits back.

Holster roars laughing and punches him in the arm. “Fuckin’ pervert!”

_“What?_ It’s the game!”

Bitty flops onto his back. “Oh my lord.”

“Dude, you broke him!”

“You made out with him so hard he died.”

Bitty bolts back up. “I’m _fine_ , God!” He chugs whatever’s left of his beer, won’t look up, can’t stop laughing. “Y’all are _mean_ , oh my gosh.”

“What about now, Bits? Are you—”

“Okay! Done! Next! Who needs beer? I’m getting up.”

There’s a chorus of confirmations and he leaps to his feet and pads into the kitchen.

Shitty says, “Next! Jay-Z, truth or spin?”

From the kitchen, Bitty hears Jack say, "I'm waiting until he gets back," and then Shitty: "Bro, you are so transparent."

Bitty comes back with four beer that he tosses to Lardo, Shitty and Ransom, then sits with his own. His eyes meet Jack's and he realizes that while he was gone, Jack picked up the bottle.

"Okay!" Shitty booms. "Jack! Pick!"

Jack hesitates and makes an _s_ sound. "Ssstruth." And he puts the bottle down. Ransom punches him.

"Bro, don't play with my heart like that."

Jack smiles to himself, which makes it worth it. Bitty tucks his knees up again and cracks his beer.

"Okay! Truth!" Shitty says. "Who's got one for Jacky-boy?"

Bitty opens his mouth and closes it. Holster whispers something to Ransom and they both start laughing.

Shitty takes a swig of beer. "Something you want to share with the group, boys?"

Holster puts his chin in his hand and his elbow on his knee in mock interest, and looks at Jack. "Uh, how big is your dick."

"Oh _lord_."

"You guys are in high school, I swear to fucking God."

"Uh ..."

"Listen, we've got worse ones up here." Ransom taps his head. "Believe me."

Jack looks at Shitty, who shrugs and tries not to laugh. "The people have spoken, brother."

Jack rolls his eyes. He sighs. "Ok. What, like how big is it all the time, or—"

"Wow, you literally had _no_ adolescence, did you? _No_ , Jack. Hard."

Jack takes a polite sip of beer. "I don't measure it. Why would I measure it?"

"Well—I don't know, then, just—"

Jack looks at his hands, then touches the thumb and forefinger of his right and loops them, thumb overlapping the nail of his forefinger. He examines it. "Like this, I guess? I don't know."

The absurdity of not measuring by length makes Bitty laugh, which Jack glares at him for, blushing all the way down his throat, and either Shitty or Lardo whistles but Bitty can't tell who.

"Fascinating," Holster says, laughing. He leans in towards Ransom and is drunk enough to only pretend to whisper, "Is that a Canadian thing, or ..." and Ransom punches him in the leg.

Jack drops his hands and says, "Why is everyone laughing?" which makes them laugh harder, and he sits and sulks.

Shitty wipes tears from his eyes and settles back down. "Okay, okay, thank you Jack for that valuable information."

Jack grumbles at the floor.

"So! Next! Lardo! Truth or spin?"

She looks each one of them in the eye before saying, "Truth," and Ransom and Holster groan.

"You're killing me, Lardo."

"I'm dying."

She cackles and rolls back on her butt. "You guys are way too thirsty to handle this right now. Truth! Whatcha got? Demolish me!"

After a beat, Bitty speaks up from behind his knees.

"Um, rank who you'd want to sleep with, out of us all."

She laughs so loudly in echoes through the Haus. "Oh my fuck, bro, that's demolishing _them._ "

_"Hey!"_

"Yeah, c'mon, Lardo! Be nice! We're strapping young men."

"Bits, you don't even _care!_ That's rude."

Bitty giggles and drinks. "Well, I'm curious."

"We're gonna make _you_ do it next, Bits."

"No!"

"Too late." Holster points from his own eyes to Bitty's. "Got my eye on you. Next truth: you're going down."

Lardo surveys the group while Bitty laughs and laughs, half nervous and half genuine.

"Okay!" Lardo yells. "I got it, listen up. In order from most bangable to least likely to bang." She takes a deep breath. "Shitty, Jack, Ransom, Holster, Bits." She looks at Bitty. "Sorry, bro, I just know you wouldn't be into it, and—"

"Oh my God, please, no offense taken."

Ransom glares across the circle at Shitty and says, "Look more smug, Shits, please," and Shitty is grinning as wide as he possibly can.

"I can't. This is literally the smuggest I get."

Lardo looks sheepish and elbows him in the side. "You fuckin' nerd."

"Why is Jack second?" Holster yells. "That's unfair!"

Lardo looks at Jack, whose ears have gone red again. "I'm ... a little curious?"

"Lardo, I'll have you know I'm an _extremely_ contentious and caring lover."

"It's nothing personal, Holtzy! You're over a foot taller than me! I just—don't know if it would work." She laughs. "We wouldn't like, line up."

"There are ways around that," Holster says carefully.

"Alright, guys, let's not read too much into this. Shits! Truth or spin?"

Shitty hums, sitting closer to Lardo than he was a moment ago. "Let's go with truth."

Ransom rolls his eyes. "Aw, weak."

"No no no!" Lardo waves her hands. "Holy fuck, no, I've got one. I've been waiting _years_ for a straight answer to this." She puts a hand on Shitty's knee and stares up at him. "Shitty B. Knight, did you, or did you not, hook up with Jack Zimmermann in your freshman year?"

Jack groans into his hands, then pulls himself to his feet. "I'm getting another beer."

Shitty shifts on the floor and spins his ball cap around. "Should I wait for him to come back?"

"Well, he knows what happened." Lardo leans into Shitty's side and rests her cold beer on his arm; he glows. "So, bud? Spill the beans."

Shitty hesitates. "Uh, can you define hooking up?"

Bitty laughs way too loudly. From the kitchen, Jack coughs awkwardly.

"Nuh-uh, you can't answer a question with a question. Go."

Shitty moves his jaw back and forth for a moment, smiling but uncharacteristically quiet.

"Uh. No, we didn't."

"And by whose definition of hooking up is that?" Ransom asks, all teeth. "Hooking up like fucking, or hooking up like making out and shit?"

Jack comes back into the room just as Shitty says, "Well, we never fucked," and Jack hits him in the back of the head with his full beer can. "Ow!"

"We're not talking about this."

Lardo waves her hand. "So, does that mean you did things  _shy_ of fucking, or ..." 

"You got your answer," Shitty says slyly, fitting his arm around her back. "Who's thirsty now? That was you looking for deets."

"Uh, first and second on my list gettin' all up on each other? _Yeah_ , that was me looking for fucking deets."

Jack jams his knee into hers and everyone laughs, and even Jack's smiling. Bitty watches him from across the circle, so glad that he's here, glad that he's so loose and casual and able to talk to everyone like how he does when they're alone.

"And now," Shitty says, "the man we've all been waiting for. Bits, truth or spin?"

"Um. If I say truth, Holster's gonna make me tell y'all my list, and that's private information—"

"Does that mean you've thought about it?"

"—so, spin, I guess. And _no."_

"Yeah fuckin' right, Bits."

Bitty raises his beer and drinks for a few long seconds, then swipes his hand over his mouth. "Okay, let's get this over with."

He reaches into the centre of the circle and spins the bottle, kind of poorly, so it only spins a circle and a half before landing squarely on Jack.

The other four yell and bang their fists on the floor so loud and rambunctious that they're going to fall right through to the basement. Jack and Bitty just look at each other, shocked, and Bitty tries not to smile.

"Oh, gosh."

Holster bumps his shoulder. "You aimed that shit, bro."

"I did not! I don't cheat!"

Shitty and Lardo look at each other, exchanging knowing looks. "So, Bits, you deny cheating but you do _not_ deny that cheating, for you, would involve making it land on—"

"Okay! Shh! I'm doing it, okay?" He gets up on his knees and walks over to Jack, who scoots closer to Ransom to give him room. Everyone's staring. 

Bitty sits on his heels so he's closer to Jack's height sitting down, and looks at him from close and says, "Sorry."

Jack shakes his head and lets Bitty lean in. Bitty rises up on his knees, tips his head and presses his lips to Jack's, soft but insistent, curling a hand in the sleeve of his shirt.

Without thinking, Jack puts his hand on Bitty's knee.

The other four scream and cackle again and Bitty presses closer, trying not to smile, and lets their lips move in a slow slide, drawing Jack's bottom lip between his, fingers brushing his arm. Jack's hand is big and heavy on his leg just below the hem of his shorts, and he smells clean like soap and detergent. He can't believe people are _watching._ He feels the tip of Jack's tongue against the wet inside of his lip for just a moment before he pulls back, scraping his teeth against Bitty's bottom lip as he goes.

Neither of them is sure when everyone went quiet, but now they're just staring. Bitty drops his hand from Jack's arm and sits back.

"Um."

Shitty, Lardo, Ransom and Holster exchange silent looks. Bitty sits down next to Jack and clears his throat.

"What's—what, did I do it wrong?"

"Should I say something?" Ransom asks.

"No, I got it," Shitty says. He looks at Bitty and Jack and folds his hands. "Uh. Mind telling me what the _fuck_ that was?"

Jack flushes. "What? Rans was practically on top of him."

"Yeah, but we also smashed teeth."

"And I got you in the eye with my glasses," Holster notes. "But you guys were _perfect."_

"So, you're either more fuckin' made for each other than anyone has ever been," Shitty says slowly, grinning, "or. You've done it before."

"No," Jack says quickly, and pushes Bitty's back until he stands and goes back to his seat.

"Yeah, no," Bitty agrees, picking his beer back up.

"Bro, you put your hand on his leg."

"His _bare_ leg."

"Bits, you weren't even sweating."

"I saw tongue."

"Again," Jack says through his teeth, "Rans, you made out with him. You had like, your entire tongue in his mouth."

"Yeah, and it was hilariously awkward as all hell. But that was smooth."

"That was heartfelt."

"That was _practiced."_

"Are you guys hooking up?" Lardo finally asks. She looks up at Jack, then jabs a finger at him. "And don't get into semantics with me, Zimmermann. You know what I mean."

Jack shifts. "We're not."

"Seriously?"

He's careful not to look at Bitty. He drinks. "Yep."

Everyone's quiet for a moment. Bitty touches his mouth.

Holster sighs and says, "Well, I don't believe you." He points at Shitty. "I'm next right? Truth," and he slowly looks at everyone in the circle. "Use. It. Wisely. If you know what I mean."

Shitty and Ransom hum and Bitty hides behind his knees again, watching Jack, whose shoulders are tight.

"Okay, Holtzy," Ransom starts. "How do you think Jack and Bitty started their secret relationship, which they are currently in as we speak?"

_"Ransom!"_

"Oh, that's a good one." Holster finishes his beer and clacks it on the floor. "Feel free to chime in, anyone, but, I've got theories."

"Please don't do this," Bitty says, pulling on his arm.

"Well, if you're not together, what does it matter? Okay, here's the thing — that early morning checking practice they never talk about? I'm thinking that was it."

"Oh, clever."

"Yeah! Like, Faber, all empty before sunrise, Bitty gettin' smashed into the boards. Real romantic, bro. Well, for them."

_"Holtzy."_

"Yeah, so one of them probably just went for it one day, you know? The closeness and aloneness. Relief from their constant pining."

"Probably didn't talk about it for a while 'cause they're so fucking awkward."

Bitty buries his face in his knees. "Oh my God, y'all, _stop."_

"But maybe this was recent? And they haven't talked about it yet?"

"No way, not with a kiss like that. They're experienced."

"Okay!" Jack yells. "Question answered! Done! Next! Ransom! Go!"

Ransom and Holster laugh and Shitty and Lardo look knowingly from Jack, tense and flushed, to Bitty, nervous and sucking back beer.

Ransom pretends to think. "Uh, truth."

And, as fast as if they'd rehearsed it, Holster points at him and says, "Who do you think bottoms, Bitty or Jack, _go!"_

Jack sticks his leg out and kicks Holster at the same time that Bitty punches him in the arm.

"Guys, stop it!" Bitty wails.

"Sure, sure! Whenever you're ready to be honest with your bros, bros!" He leans into Ransom. "Buddy. Go."

"That's a good question. Lots to consider, you know?"

"They're complicated boys."

"Very. 'Cause, I mean, the obvious answer is Bits."

"You _guys!"_

"But, maybe too obvious? Like, he does, he totally does. But maybe Jack does, too?"

"Oh, totally. Likes to relinquish that control once in a while, really lose it."

Jack jumps to his knees and puts Ransom in a headlock. "Shut up!"

Ransom laughs and laughs and tries to wrestle Jack off him. "Just sayin', bro!"

Lardo takes a swig of beer, still leaning back into Shitty's arm. "Yeah, they switch." She burps. "They totally switch."

Shitty laughs so hard he starts coughing and Bitty has his face buried in his knees and Holster is trying to free Ransom from Jack's unforgiving headlock, which has turned into violent roughhousing; Ransom has both hands on Jack's head, trying to pry him off while Jack knees him in the side.

"Bro," Ransom tries, "I—support—your—lifestyle!" but he's laughing too hard to sound serious. Jack looks so, so embarrassed and Bitty looks like he might die. Shitty and Lardo start yelling for Jack and Ransom to fight! fight! fight! and Holster knocks his beer over and eventually, Bitty screams.

"Oh my God, _fine_ , we're hooking up, now _stop it!"_

Everyone stops. Jack drops his arm from around Ransom's neck and Ransom falls on the floor, and everyone looks at Bitty, who's looking at dead at Jack and blushing fiercely.

"I'm _sorry,"_ he apologizes, like there's no one else there, "they already guessed and they weren't gonna shut up and I know they won't tell—"

"Wait, you're serious?" Shitty puts his beer down. "Jack?"

Jack sits, embarrassed, and looks down at Ransom, who’s lying on his back next to him. "Sorry, Rans."

"Didn't hurt." He blinks up at Jack. "Wait. So. Yeah?"

Jack shrugs.

"You're actually hooking up?"

Jack shrugs again and, for a second, his eyes meet Bitty's, who's been staring at him, breathless, since he called out. Then he looks at his feet and says, "I would have said _dating_ , but."

There's a chorus of drunken, scandalized _oooohhhh_ s from the peanut gallery.

Bitty raises his eyebrows. "Would you, now?"

"Oh, listen to the sassy southern twang on that one. Shit just got real."

Jack goes red. "I don't—maybe?"

"Oh." Bitty sits and stares, eyebrows climbing as high as they can go. "Well."

Jack and Bitty just look at each other for a few long, pregnant moments, both Bitty's hands curled around his beer can, Jack's palms flat on the floor. You can cut the _we need to talk_ in the air with a knife, and the giddy, electric aura now surrounding Bitty.

"So, uh." Shitty slurps his beer. "Does this mean we were we right about Faber, and the switching, or ...?"

Jack tears his eyes away from Bitty's and flicks nervously from Shitty to Lardo, and then back, scowling. "I'm ... I'm going to bed." He hauls himself to his feet, taking his empty beer cans with him.

Bitty almost pitches over getting up. "I'm going, too."

"I bet you are."

Jack glares. "We have practice in the morning. _You_ have practice in the morning."

Shitty puts his chin on Lardo's head. "If you're trying to tell us not to sit here, get super shwasted and talk very loudly about your love life until three in the morning, you're falling on deaf fuckin' ears, my friend."

"This takes a totally new direction now that we know you actually _are_ secretly dating," Lardo quips. “Lotsa speculation. Infinite chirps."

"Please don't," Bitty tries again, and Holster, lying down next to Ransom, finger-snaps and points at him.

"Maybe stop being so adorable, bro. Then we won't."

Bitty cracks a smile. "You're drunk."

“And you guys are _mad_ cute.”

Bitty rolls his eyes and steps through the circle to where Jack stands, and snags his pinkie with his index finger. Jack looks a little embarrassed but, to the trained eye, also incredibly pleased.

“This doesn’t leave the Haus.”

The four on the floor wordlessly hold up their fingers in ‘scout’s honour,’ and Jack turns away and Bitty mouths _thank you_ at them behind his back.

“It’s funny how you think you’re done talking about this,” Shitty calls after them as they head up the stairs. “Like, really, really funny, and incredibly naive.”

“We’ll compile a list of questions and submit them to you tomorrow morning via fillable PDF,” Lardo adds. “For your convenience!”

“You’re welcome!” Ransom yells.

The old floorboards creak upstairs as Bitty and Jack walk down the hall, and only one door opens and closes. Shitty snakes his arm around Lardo again and she leans back into it, sipping her beer.

“Well,” she says. “That was easier than I thought.”

 


	4. kent parson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The kid giggles and, so subtly that Kent wouldn't have seen if he wasn't blatantly watching, he brushes his fingers against Jack's hip. More astonishingly, Jack doesn't jerk awkwardly away from the touch, and that's when it hits Kent that they're sleeping together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hullo again! canon divergence for epikegster, obviously. enjoy.

When Kent Parson steps into the Haus, his eyes search every single sweaty, drunk face he sees for Jack in the same way a lion scans the savannah for a gazelle. But it's not like that, not really, because he's an adult, and he likes Jack. Really. He isn't sure what he's doing at his house, completely uninvited, during a party that was definitely trending on Twitter an hour ago, but he's not being malicious, and it's not the first time he's done it, either. He knows Jack is going to sign soon and he would be an idiot if he didn't try to get him to come to Las Vegas, because regardless of whatever else happened between them, they were the best fucking pair that hockey had ever seen, and it's only natural for him to want _that_ back, despite the fact that wanting Jack in any other way is a ship that sailed so long ago he can't even see it on the horizon anymore. A ship full of poisonous snakes, who never call him back. But it's natural to want to play with him again.

The way his pulse jumps when he sees Jack taking a photo with some little blond kid is probably less than natural.

Jack has a solo cup in his hand—is he drinking again?—and he's leaning down against the wall to be in the frame with this _kid_ , whose head hardly reaches his chin. Kent doesn't know his name but he knows he's on Jack's team from the bits of news he's been able to get about college hockey, or maybe he's thinking of someone else. He looks like a hockey player, albeit shrunk down fifty percent; he's got the shoulders for it, the thighs, and he's probably fast as all fucking hell if he can skate.

Kent shakes his head. Not the point.

He starts to worm his way through the crowd, hoping no one notices him until he can get to Jack, not that he knows what he's going to say when he gets there, but when he's a few yards away, he stops dead—he watches Jack _smile_ down at this kid, the kind of sweet, unguarded, panty-dropping smile he hasn't seen on Jack's face since he was a teenager, and he leans down to speak into his ear, probably whispering. The kid giggles and, so subtly that Kent wouldn't have seen if he wasn't blatantly watching, he brushes his fingers against Jack's hip. More astonishingly, Jack doesn't jerk awkwardly away from the touch, and that's when it hits Kent that they're sleeping together.

"Oh my fucking God, I did not sign up for this shit."

He spins his hat and yanks it down over his eyes and starts his retreat, praying he doesn't get noticed; he's not a big deal, not really, but this is a house full of sports bros and specifically, hockey bros, and he might as well be Céline Dion.

He gets back outside and tries to imagine what that kid is like, to make Jack smile like that. His mind wanders down a rude, inappropriate path, then back into something wholesome, all tender eyes and _I'm here for you_ and everything else Kent wasn't good at giving Jack. He was great on that other path, though.

He spots the one friend of Jack's he'd be able to recognize leaning on the porch next to a cooler, which has a bucket of what might be alcohol but looks like antifreeze in it, the guy with the moustache. He's wearing a jean jacket with nothing underneath and Kent always liked him, the few times they spoke; he was down to earth, and seemed, while not unimpressed by Kent, not enthused, and Kent liked that.

He sidles up next to him.

"What in God's name is in that bucket?"

Shitty looks at him through his mirrored shades, presumably. His eyebrows rise above them.

"Kent fuckin' Parson, how's it going, dude?" He slaps him on the back in that 'not close enough to hug' kind of way, and Kent appreciates it. "And, to answer your question: this, my man, is tub juice."

Kent grimaces at it. "Where'd you get it?"

"The tub. Get your head in the game, Parson." He stoops down and scoops Kent a solo cup full. "Here. Your present, as our guest."

"I'm gonna regret this." He drinks, and it's so boozy he can feel it in his eyes, but it's not bad. "Huh."

"I know, right? You're welcome. Heads up, it’s addictive." Shitty leans back against the porch railing and runs his hands through his hair. "To what do we owe the pleasure? You here to see Jack?"

There's something in his voice that lets Kent know he remembers what happened last time, how weird Jack had been, how angry he'd gotten, but whether he's passing judgement remains to be seen.

"Something like that." Kent sips his tub juice, and maybe that's why he asks, "How long has he been seeing that kid?"

"What—Bitty?"

"The short one. Blond."

Shitty's eyebrows appear over the top of his shades again. "Yeah, Bitty. You mean _seeing_ like ..."

"Seeing like fucking each other, come on. We're all adults here." Kent leans over and tries to peer in the front door, where he can sort of see Jack's back in between all the people, his red Samwell tee stretched over his shoulders. He completely blocks Bitty from view.

Kent hears Shitty say, "Oh," kind of surprised, and he turns back. "They're not."

"Excuse me?"

"Yeah, I don't ... they're not together."

Kent huffs. "Alright, I know Jack's probably said some shit about me or whatever, but I'm not a total asshole, okay? It's not like I'm gonna tell 'the media.'" He makes awkward air quotes without putting his cup down. "You don't have to protect him."

"I'm not fucking _protecting_ him, I swear to fuck they're not."

"So they're not dating, or they're not fooling around?"

"Neither." Shitty scratches his moustache. "I mean, I don't think so, anyways."

"You don't know?"

"I guess not." Shitty grins like he's surprised at this revelation. "Well, fuck me sideways. I never thought about it."

"They're pretty fucking obvious."

Lardo comes up behind Shitty from the lawn and swings onto the porch railing. "Who's obvious?"

Shitty passes her the unopened can of beer on his other side. "Parson says Bitty and Jack are bumpin' uglies."

"Oh, _what?"_ She laughs. "Since fucking when? _They're_ the ones being obvious?"

"Well, yeah."

"What did you even see them doing?"

Kent shifts uncomfortably and takes a pull of tub juice to distract himself. "He whispered to him. And the kid touched his waist. And he _smiled_."

"Jack smiles all the time now, though."

"Around everyone?"

Ransom and Holster's faces appear at the window in matching shutter shades and olive laurels. "Oh _shit_ , is that Kent Parson?"

_"Shh!"_

"Oh, bro, we're coming out."

They disappear and in a few moments appear at the door, squeezing their way onto the porch. They each throttle Kent in a bro-hug because, unlike Shitty, they don't care who's close to who because they're _doing this and it's happening_. Kent laughs into Holster's shoulder.

Ransom settles on his other side. "Good to see you, bro, how's it going?"

"He says Jack and Bitty are hooking up," Lardo answers for him.

"Seriously? Did Jack tell you that?"

"No," Kent says into his cup. "But it looks like it."

"Were they making out?"

"He says they whispered to each other or something."

"It's loud in there, they were probably just talking."

"And Bits touches everybody, he's like that. 'Specially when he's schwastey."

"Well, I guess I'm fucking wrong, then, whatever!" Kent snaps. He feels stupid for bringing it up, but he was so sure they all knew already. He thought Jack touching someone at a party meant something, but he realizes he must not know Jack at all anymore, and that feels weird. He must be someone who lets guys touch him at parties now, and someone who actually attends parties, and has friends who aren't him.

"No, no, no," Ransom says, "You might be onto something. They're up in each other's space more than Bitty's ever up in anyone else's."

Shitty rubs his chin thoughtfully. "Now that you mention it, last week we were hanging in the kitchen and Jack was at the table, right, and Bits leaned over to see what he was doing or some shit, and he put his arm on his shoulders like—" He reaches behind Lardo and presses his forearm across the back of her shoulders. "That's a pretty un-bro touch."

Holster snaps his fingers, then throws back the rest of his beer. When he comes up for air, he crushes the cup in his hand. "Let's Nancy Drew this shit."

 

So that's how the five of them end up pretty significantly drunk and peering around the corner of the hallway all stacked on top of each other like mystery solving teens, watching Jack and Bitty.

"What makes you think they're flirting?" Holster asks, his chin resting on Ransom's head.

"I don't know." Kent, crouched above Lardo with Shitty's chin on his head, squints at the two of them. Jack left a moment ago and then came back, and while he was gone all Bitty did was take his phone out and try to stop smiling. Then Jack came back, and he definitely hasn't stopped smiling since. Kent isn't sure he's ever seen the kid not smiling, and he wonders if that's his own thing or a Jack-related thing. "The ... downcast eyes, the smiling. Textbook."

"They haven't touched."

"Jack doesn't touch when he flirts." Kent takes a pull of tub juice and sets his cup on Lardo's shoulder. "It's in the eyes."

Shitty dips his head and says, "You sure know a lot about how Jack flirts," and Kent elbows him in the gut.

"Wait for it," he says, knowingly. "There'll be something. There's no way they're not hooking up. I _know_ him."

"As if Bits could keep the fact that he's boning the captain of the hockey team under wraps."

Lardo looks up. "He's not stupid."

"No, but he'd just be, like, too excited. His cup would overfloweth."

"Since when does Bitty like Jack?"

"Since always, I think."

"Well, nobody told _me."_

"Nobody told anybody! God."

Kent has no idea how Jack and Bitty haven't noticed these guys with all their goofy bickering, but the music is loud and busy and the flow of people in between them helps. He can't imagine that's liquor in Jack's cup, even if the flush across Bitty's cheeks says there's definitely liquor in his, and they should have been caught before now. Unless the two of them are in their own little world. Kent remembers being there. Jack had been so different when they were together, but parts of him are still the same now, if Kent can tell anything from here; his intensity, and the way he makes you feel like the only person in a room. Bitty looks breathless with it. Kent feels breathless just remembering, in an unpleasant sort of way. It isn't something he wants back, but it sure was something. Something, he's sure, that Bitty now has.

Then Jack looks around. Shitty hisses, "Hide!" and they all duck back, but Kent stays peering around the corner, watching.

A group of people go by and when they've passed, Jack is leaning closer to Bitty.

"Hey!" Kent whispers, tugging on Shitty's jean vest. "Look, he's doing it!"

They come back around the corner just in time to watch, slack-jawed, as Jack angles himself towards Bitty and touches his elbow, feather-light but there, and runs his hand down his forearm. He brushes fingers across his palm, catches Bitty’s own fingers, then drops his hand. He says something into Bitty’s ear and Bitty laughs, bright and loud.

“Bingo.”

“Holy fucking shit,” Shitty whispers reverently.

“That was _not_ a bro touch.”

Kent mutters, “And Kent Parson is right again, surprising absolutely no one.” He sips his drink. "He's got a thing for little blond guys."

"And they're getting littler," Shitty notes, trying not to laugh. "Next one's gonna be five foot even."

“Oh my God,” Holster says, slapping Ransom on the back. “This is huge. This is _news._ This is unprecedented in Haus history.”

Kent glances up. “You guys ... really didn’t know?”

“We had no fucking idea, bro, this is crazy. _Man_ , how are we gonna let them know we know?”

“There’s gotta be something funny here—remember that episode of _Friends_ , where Joey and Phoebe know about Monica and Chandler ...”

Kent, belatedly, feels kind of bad. He just _outed_ Jack, is that going to be okay? He was so sure they were just fucking with him, because if he could tell in two seconds that Jack was into that kid, he assumed they knew. But they didn’t, somehow, so maybe Kent knows more about Jack than he thought he did.

And then some drunk guy yells, “Holy shit, is that Kent Parson?” and Jack’s shoulders twitch like he’s been burned, and Kent isn’t sure what that means. Jack looks around frantically and finds him, crouched between Lardo and Shitty, and his eyes go wide with surprise. He sees him take a step away from Bitty, and then every drunk sports bro in the room who wants a photo with Kent swarms the space in between them, and he can’t see him anymore.

 

An hour and a lot of hover hands later, he manages to slip away, thrice as drunk as he was before from all the free drinks people kept pressing into his hands, and who would he be to say no? He steadies himself in the kitchen and tries to remember where he saw Jack last, but the crowd has gotten so thick that there’s nowhere downstairs he could imagine him being, and the music is so loud he can feel it in his face, or maybe that’s the tub juice, which he hasn’t been able to stop drinking.

They must be upstairs.

Kent teeters up the stairs under the pressure of hands clapping down on his shoulders and slurred _hey, dude_ s that he just smiles at and brushes off. He stops in front of the door he remembers being Jack’s and, okay, presses his ear to it, just for a second. There’s someone inside, muffled speaking, breath, sounds. He stands back. Against his better judgement, he knocks, and vividly remembers being on other other side of the door, not this exact door but other doors, metaphorical doors, behind which _his_ hands were all over Jack, _his_ face that Jack tore away from angrily, frustrated, humiliated at being caught.

_“What?”_ comes from the other side, terse, clipped.

Kent just says, “Open up,” because that’s what he always used to say at Jack’s door, and he doesn’t think of the difference in circumstance.

Jack’s reply through the door is, “I’m busy,” impatient, glaringly obvious, and Kent wonders if this is what he’d say to his roommates, to Shitty or Ransom or Holster if they’d knocked on his door; would he so obviously be busy in that _I have company_ sort of way?

“Zimms, it’s Kent,” he says, hoping that’s enough. He doesn’t say _Parson_ or _Parse_ or, infinitely worse, _Kenny,_ because it’s not about that. If anything, him being on the other side of the door is probably a reason for Jack _not_ to open it, but what else is he supposed to say? He’s trying to come up with a follow-up— _open up_ again, or _I know he’s in there_ or _I did something bad—_ when Jack opens the door just enough to get his head and one shoulder through.

He’s got his shirt on backwards and he’s blushing to his ears, his eyes bright and vicious and alive, reckless in a way Kent recognizes. Kent nearly swallows his tongue.

_“What?”_ Jack says again. They haven’t spoken all night; he saw Jack lingering on the main floor when Kent was caught in the selfie hurricane for which he has no one to blame but himself, but Jack disappeared with Bitty God knows how long ago, and he has no idea how far they’ve gotten behind that closed door but, again, Kent feels bad too late.

Kent blurts, “I think I just outed you to all your friends.”

From behind Jack’s door, Kent hears someone shriek, _“What?!”_

Jack’s eyes go big. He half-steps out of his room, looks down the hall, then pulls Kent into his room by his shirt when he’s sure there’s no one there to see. This is familiar. Being pushed against the shut door is familiar, too, but Jack stepping away from him again isn’t. Someone standing by the bed—Bitty, his eyes big and surprised, wearing his zipped-up hoodie with nothing underneath, obviously as much of a rush job as Jack’s backwards and inside-out t-shirt—is also new.

Kent looks between the two of them, not sure who he should be talking to. He settles on Jack, who is that silent, clenched-jaw kind of angry as he waits for Kent to explain himself before he says anything, not wanting to incriminate himself any further than he has (Kent figures). Bitty looks floored, silent, tense. Kent doesn’t know him well enough to talk to him directly, no more than he had anyone downstairs who had pressed their sides into his for a photo.

“I—I thought they knew,” Kent starts, “I asked how long you’d been, you know, whatever, and they said you weren’t, and, okay, there was tub juice, and I argued, and that tall dude wanted to sleuth it out so we did and—anyways, they know, that you’re, I don’t know.” He gestures weakly between the two of them. _“This.”_

“How do you know they know?” Jack says quickly.

“They— _ugh_ , okay, we were watching you.”

Jack goes red all the way down his throat. “What the fuck?”

“I don’t know! We—he said we should solve the mystery and _I_ wanted to solve the mystery, so we—you were in the hallway and you touched his arm and they all said I was wrong up until then so, I don’t know, I wanted to be right, okay? _Zimms, I’m too drunk for this_ , I just—I should warn you.”

“Warn us,” Bitty shrieks, “that you _outed us?”_

Kent holds his hands up. “I thought they knew!” He tries to pick out Bitty’s accent, stronger than Jack’s, from somewhere left or right of Texas.

“Why would they know?” Jack says, loud, and steps into Kent’s space. “You’re here for a fucking hour and you think—”

“Because _I_ knew! Christ.” He takes his hat off and brushes his hair back to have something to do with his hands, then puts it on backwards again. “I knew the first second I saw you. You’re real fucking obvious, I didn’t know it was supposed to be a _secret,_ God.”

Bitty flushes. “We aren’t obvious.”

“You’re like a jumbotron of _obvious_ , Jesus Christ.” Kent shifts uncomfortably and wonders, idly, if he and Jack were ever so stupid. He’s pretty sure they were. “I thought they saw it if I could see it, but. I guess—not.” Belatedly, he sticks his hand out towards Bitty. “Uh. I’m Kent, by the way.”

Bitty’s eyes flash to Jack’s for a moment, asking, before he steps forward and shakes Kent’s hand. His hand isn’t as small as Kent thought it would be. He’s got a good grip.

“Eric Bittle,” he says, and it’s almost challenging, assertive. Kent nearly smiles. He has no idea what this kid has heard about him, how long he’s been doing whatever he’s been doing with Jack and whether or not it’s ventured into the territory where you talk about past relationships, or whatever the fuck he and Jack were to each other.

“Nice to meet you.”

Out of his range of vision, Jack huffs angrily, or else he’s just frustrated.

“Who knows?” he asks, all business.

“Um. What’s that guy’s name? Shitty, with the moustache. Lardo. And those d-men who do everything together, in the shutter shades.”

“Good _lord_.” Bitty puts his face in his hands. “That’s everyone. Think maybe I should text Chowder, or Nursey? Or you could get up on a table and scream it a little louder?”

“I thought they knew,” Kent says against, honestly. If he were any more honest, he’d take his hat off, but he doesn’t. “I swear to God, like, I thought they were fucking with me.”

He locks eyes with Jack and it’s—weird. They’ve seen each other since, you know, but it’s weirder now, with his _new_ boy in the room, with Kent having newly outed him, at least to a small but meaningful group. Jack’s eyes have never been so blue, so sharp, so focused. Kent thinks, _this is what he must look like sober._

“So,” Kent says, awkward, abortive, a litre of tub juice too drunk for this. “What happens now?”

Jack shakes his head. He runs his fingers through his hair and looks at Bitty, who’s sat on Jack’s bed with his hands clasped loosely between his knees. They both look hopeless.

“Uh. You leave, I guess,” Jack says to Kent. “Try telling them we’re not, but, whatever. Damage done.”

“Right.” Kent rubs his neck, halfway between apologizing and diving into the hockey talk he came here for. “I’ll go.”

“Okay.”

“I came here to talk, uh, team stuff, but I’ll—email you?”

“Okay,” Jack says again, and rubs his eyes tiredly. “Sure, Kenny. Fine.”

“Okay.” Kent gives Bitty an awkward little wave. “Nice to meet you, I guess. Sorry for fucking everything up.”

Bitty says, “It’s okay,” like he means it, and Jack turns around to give him a look Kent can’t see.

Kent backs up to the door and opens it.

In the hallway, Shitty, Lardo, Ransom and Holster are doing what is obviously a sloppy rendition of the classic _Breakfast Club_ pose, with Shitty lying seductively on his side like Molly Ringwald, and they’re all grinning hugely.

“Hey, boys,” Shitty chirps. “Whatcha doin’ in there?”

Lardo, with her elbow cocked out to the side like Emilio Estevez, says, “You guys making that love fest into a menage à trois?”

From inside Jack’s room, Bitty goes, “Oh my _God,”_ mortified.

Jack shoves Kent into the hallway. “You deal with this.” He slams the door shut behind him and everyone laughs and laughs and Kent fixes his hat again, pictures Jack’s glare, Bitty’s little hand politely shaking his own despite everything.

Shitty rolls onto his back and looks up at him, beaming.

“Kent Parson, you are a motherfucking treasure.”

 


	5. show-off

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At the beginning of Bitty's senior year, one of the new frogs asks him out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thought of this on a five-hour car ride and threw it down. enjoyyy

 

 

In October of Bitty’s senior year, Nursey comes home, throws his backpack on the table and says, "One of the new frogs has the hots for you, Bits." 

Bitty pulls his head out of the cupboard where he was rooting around in the back for the old potato starch that he's sure is somewhere in there. He asks the only reasonable thing: "Which one?"

"Cam. The gangly one."

Bitty blinks at him. Cam isn't bad looking, not that it matters. He's a year younger than Bitty and over half a foot taller, with shaggy black hair and bright brown eyes. He's from Minneapolis and seems nice enough, played hockey for a few years in USHL before enrolling at Samwell. He's a strong player and a rabid hockey fan, and Bitty likes him as much as he likes anyone; they haven't had much of a chance to talk, but that's true of all the frogs.

"How do you know?"

"He asked Chowder if you're seeing anyone. In that really obvious way."

"Oh." Bitty turns around. "What did he tell him?"

"Well, you're not. Are you?"

It takes him a second to respond. "No." He laughs. "You guys would know if I was. We _live_ together."

"I know, dude." He hears Nursey open the fridge behind him. "Oh captain our little captain is too busy keeping us unruly hockey boys in check for romance."

Bitty laughs thinly. He finds the bag of potato starch and pulls it out. "Right."

"I mean, feel free to go for it, though. With Cam." Nursey shuts the fridge with his hip. "Seems like an okay dude. No one'd care if you dated in the team, we're all pretty chill about it."

"I know." He plays with his hands. "Well. Don't say anything to him. Please? I don't know."

Nursey shrugs. "Alright. No big deal, bud."

"Okay. Thanks, Nursey."

 

Cam is part of a small group of new players that attach themselves to the Haus and spend way too much of their time loitering there with Dex, Nursey, Chowder and Bitty, the sole residents of the Haus after no force on earth could make Dex and Nursey share the attic; Chowder in Jack's old room, Dex down the hall, and Nursey upstairs. And it's nice. Nothing had seemed more earth-shattering than Jack and Shitty graduating, and then Ransom and Holster, but it's been—bearable. The faces are different but Bitty still loves being here, and he spends more time on Skype than he ever has in his life, but it's good. He likes the new boys a lot, and the team is doing well—not Zimmermann-at-the-helm levels of well, but well enough—and he's finally on track to graduate in the spring. So, he's not bad. A little heartsick, a little over-eager to graduate, but not bad.

 

A week after his conversation with Nursey, Bitty's working on an assignment alone at the kitchen table when he hears the front door creak open. It's about when Chowder's done his last class, so he calls out, "Chowder?" and hears, "Cam," and Cam ducks into the kitchen.

"Oh! Hi." Bitty waves. "There's pie on the counter if you want it."

"Oh, awesome. Thanks." He crosses the kitchen and grabs a plate, smiles at Bitty over his shoulder. He's skinny as all hell, with these wide, sloping shoulders and big, bony hands. Sometimes Bitty can hardly believe he's sturdy enough to play hockey, despite his height, but people said the same thing about him. "How's it going?" he asks Bitty.

"Good, good," Bitty says, looking down and tapping out a text to Jack. "Class stuff's catchin' up to me already, I'm furious," he laughs, and Cam laughs too.

"Aw, dude, you'll be fine." He scoops a pile of blueberry pie onto a plate and covers the rest. "I'm only in first year and I'm already in over my head, God. These teens are such keeners, I swear."

Bitty laughs. "I'd like to say I was a keener when I was eighteen, too, but honestly, I've always been a pretty bad student."

"No shit, you?" Cam leans on the counter and attacks his pie with a fork. "You seem like a smart dude."

Bitty shrugs. "I do okay, but, you know. Priorities. Studies takin' a back seat to, uh—hockey, baking and boys, pretty much. Not like, goodness, have you met Ransom yet? He was a bio major. That boy can _study_."

Cam laughs. "No, haven’t yet, I don't think." He chases a lone blueberry around his plate and says, "Hockey, baking and boys, though. The holy trinity." Bitty's fingers tense around his phone. Cam clears his throat. "Uh, about that, by the way."

"Mm?"

He puts his pie plate down and fiddles with his hands. "This—sounds kind of dumb, I know, I mean, we don't really know each other super well, but. Would you ever wanna go for a drink or something?"

Bitty quirks a smile. "You're not twenty-one."

"You know they like, never ID on campus. Or, I mean, we could grab a six pack and go someplace. I just ..." He smiles, awkward, apologetic, and shrugs. "Yeah? Maybe?"

Bitty bites the inside of his cheek. He didn't think this was something he was ever going to have to deal with. He runs his fingers around the edges of his phone case.

"Um. I don't. It's not about _you_ , at all, but I ... don't think that's a good idea."

"Oh." His face falls and Bitty feels so, so bad. "Shit, sorry. Is it like—a ‘not on the team’ thing?"

Bitty doesn't know how quickly he can lie. "Something like that. I don't know. It's—don't worry about it, I'm really sorry, Cam."

"No, no! C'mon," he laughs, "it's no big deal, I just—you're a cool guy. Thought I'd ask. I'm not at Samwell for nothing."

Bitty laughs at that. "I know what you mean."

"Yeah. Don't sweat it, dude, sorry to be awkward."

"You're not! No, it's ... nice." He rubs his neck. "I can hardly remember the last time someone asked me out."

Cam raises his eyebrows and picks his plate up again. "You're shitting me."

"Nope. I don't know, just doesn't happen often."

"Surprising."

Bitty blushes. "Thanks."

"Probably 'cause you're so busy."

"Something like that."

Cam chews his pie thoughtfully. He points at it with his fork. "Can I still chill here and finish this? Or am I banished for being shot down?"

"No, oh my God!" Bitty laughs. "Sit, stay, you dork."

 

 

During their weekly Skype date—as it is always called by Shitty and never called by Jack—Shitty asks, "Did you hear about Bits?"

Jack looks at Shitty's giant face on his laptop screen from where he's chopping vegetables at his counter.

"What about him?"

"One of the new frogs has a big ol' crush on him," Shitty laughs. "Some kid from the Midwest."

Jack stiffens. "Oh."

"Yeah, right? Honestly, what the fuck was up with Bits _not_ being covered in dudes, right? He's a cute kid. And it’s _Samwell._ "

Jack puts his knife down. "Yeah."

"Probably just 'cause he's so shy. Southern belle, etcetera."

"Right." Jack picks the knife back up, puts it back down. "Did he ... ask him out?"

"Bits? I dunno. Chow mentioned it in an email. He was asking about Cambridge and stuff, just mentioned it when I asked how everyone was."

"Oh." Jack starts chopping again, more slowly than before. "You don't know his name?"

"No. Why?"

"Just. I dunno. Is he any good at hockey?"

Shitty shrugs. "Dunno, bro. I think he's a winger." He lifts his eyebrows. "Again—why?"

"No reason. Never mind. You going down for Thanksgiving?"

"Don't think I can, family 'n' shit. You?"

Jack wipes his hands on his jeans. 

"I might."

 

 

Jack doesn't tell Bitty he's coming. He knows Bitty's staying at the Haus over Thanksgiving weekend to get a head start on a term paper, so he flies in with just a small duffle and the Haus key they let him keep.

It's cold and crisp when he pulls up outside the Haus alongside two or three cars he doesn't recognize and one he does, Ransom's. He spoke to Bitty yesterday but he's still unexpectedly nervous. He can smell pumpkin and apple pies before he even gets the door open, and he hasn't seen Bitty in two weeks so emotion and nostalgia sock him in the chest like they always do when he's back at the Haus.

He shuts the door behind him and only gets a few steps into the entryway before Ransom, crammed onto the couch with a bunch of guys Jack doesn't recognize, spots him.

"Well, if it isn't Mister fuckin' Calder winner," he shouts, and alongside a chorus of _oh what the fuck,_ something clatters in the kitchen.

He's toeing his sneakers off when Bitty shoots around the corner, still wearing his apron.

He screams, "Oh my _God_ , _Jack!"_ and runs across the room, and Jack hardly has time to drop his bag before Bitty launches himself into his arms, making that high-pitched giddy noise that Jack loves. He lifts Bitty clean off the ground and half spins him, face buried in his shoulder, Bitty's arms around his neck. It's probably too much to do in front of anyone, but—whatever. That's why he's here.

He puts him down and Bitty punches him in the arm. "You _brat!_ You didn't tell me you were coming!"

"Well, it's not _my_ Thanksgiving, so."

Ransom grabs him by the shoulder and hauls him away from Bitty and into a fierce hug.

Ransom says, "Good to see you, man," into his shoulder, and Jack laughs.

"You too."

Over Ransom's shoulder, Jack looks at the pile of shocked young men crammed onto and around the couch—Bitty's new team, he figures. There's some guys he recognizes from last year and some he doesn't. He wonders who's who.

Ransom lets him go. "How was the drive?"

"Fine. You're here, too?"

"Yeah, 'course. Already had my Thanksgiving. I love having two."

"Yeah." He looks down at Bitty, who's still beaming up at him. "Got room for one more?"

"Of course, who do you think I am?" He picks up Jack's bag. "You're helping me chop sweet potatoes."

"Love to."

Someone moves in the living room and Bitty jumps, like he forgot they were there.

"Oh! Oh my God, boys, sorry, this is Jack! He was our captain, what, two years ago?"

Jack nods at them and pulls his hat off. "Hey."

He locks eyes with a pale kid with black hair, who looks absolutely shell shocked.

"Bits—the 'Jack' you're always texting is _Jack Zimmermann?"_

Bitty's grin takes up his whole face. "I thought you knew!"

"Oh my God, Bitty, what the _fuck_."

Bitty puts his hand on Jack's arm, so happy he's glowing. "C'mon, make yourself comfortable. I'll put your stuff upstairs."

The tall kid's still looking at Jack, his mouth open. Jack nods again and says, "Nice to meet you," then follows Bitty upstairs.

 

They're upstairs for a few minutes and when they come back down, Jack's shoulders are looser and Bitty still hasn't stopped smiling. The boys cram into the kitchen and watch in disbelief as Jack Zimmermann, captain of the Providence Falconers, chops sweet potatoes in their run-down kitchen next to the tiny captain of their college hockey team. 

After a handful of minutes in which Bitty asks Jack about his games and his family, and it becomes clear that no one else is going to say anything, Bitty looks over his shoulder at the teenage boys huddled around the kitchen table trying to look casual as they sip beer.

"Okay, boys, this isn't Nat Geo. You can talk to him, he's not going to bite."

Someone mumbles _sorry_. Jack laughs.

"Alright, we're doing intros. Jack, put that thing down. Want a beer?"

Jack shakes his head and Bitty gets one for himself. He cracks it and leans on the counter next to Jack.

"Russy, go. Name, position, where you're from. That's as good as anyplace, I guess."

"Aw, Bits, c'mon."

"No! If y'all are gonna be awkward like this is some teenaged summer camp, you're gettin' an icebreaker. Russ, go."

A thick kid with blond hair manages to look at Jack and say, "Cole Russel, defense. I'm from Saskatchewan," and he sticks his hand out towards him, and Jack shakes it. "Uh, I'm, like. A big fan. Of yours."

Jack stifles a smirk and Bitty elbows him in the ribs and mutters, "Jerk."

"Thanks," Jack says. "Nice to meet you."

They go around the kitchen until Jack has officially and politely met Joel, Michael, Carver, Pete, Lee, and Ransom and Nursey, who vigorously shake Jack's hand and beg him to sign their abs. And then he gets to the kid leaning by the fridge, who's taller than him by a couple inches and probably weighs half what he does.

"Kyle Cameron," he says, extending his hand towards Jack. "Right winger. Moved here from Minneapolis."

_Midwest_. Jack's mind clicks. If he shakes his hand a little too hard, holds his eyes for a second too long, he's sure no one else notices.

“Nice to meet you.”

“I saw your game last week,” Cam says, “against the Senators. Congrats on the hat trick.”

“Oh yeah, man, that was dope.”

“That was _crazy_ , I can’t believe that hit! That hurt?”

Jack pushes the sleeve of his t-shirt up to show a nasty yellowing bruise on his shoulder and bicep, and everyone collectively _oooohhhhs_. Bitty grins and bumps him.

“Quit showin’ off your battle scars, tough boy.” He turns back to the sink and keeps washing potatoes. “Icebreaker’s over, y’all can either go watch the game until dinner, or talk to Mister Zimmermann like a human being. He’s got a sweet potato to chop.”

To everyone’s surprise—and they’re not sure why they expected anything different—Jack just smiles and goes back to the sweet potato, no argument. The boys file out of the kitchen, for the most part, but not before Chowder and Nursey grab a Sharpie and try to make Jack sign their faces. Cam’s the last to go after grabbing another beer, and when he peeks back over his shoulder, Bitty’s leaning up into Jack’s space, saying something quietly. Jack snorts and shoves him. Cam hurries into the living room.

 

Bitty manages to get a modest feast together with the help of Jack, whose cooking skills have gotten moderately better since moving out. By seven, the entire house smells like turkey and boys keep sticking their heads into the kitchen to ask if there’s anything they can help with because can dinner _please_ be ready now, increasingly more drunk and more earnest.

They pull both table leafs out and some people still have to sit in the living room in front of the TV, but no one minds; Chowder, Dex, Nursey, Cam and Russel were the ones who got rights to sit at the ‘big boy table’ with Jack, Bitty and Ransom. No one under twenty wants anything to do with wine but they go through two bottles of red and several cases of beer over the course of dinner. Bitty sits next to Jack and jumps when he presses their ankles together under the table, but doesn’t move away. Once everyone’s done eating, they sit at the table chatting and drinking, about as civilized as a house full of hockey bros ever gets, which Bitty is _sure_ is due to Jack’s presence. It’s all very polite, enthusiastic hockey talk, mostly directed at Jack, who, five minutes ago, rested his arm across the back of Bitty’s chair, and has been ignoring Ransom’s pointed looks ever since.

Bitty can’t stop smiling, a few beer and a couple glasses of wine deep, leaning back into Jack’s arm. After a bit, he stretches and stands. “Anyone want another beer?”

Jack looks up at him. “Mixing wine and beer, Bittle? You’re gonna be sick.”

Bitty points at him. “You shush. You were privy to my freshman year, I don’t think _anyone’s_ seen me sicker than you have.”

“Uh.” Ransom raises his hand. “I could contest that.”

“Okay, _both of you_ , shush! Beer? Anyone?”

Cam says, “I’ll have one, thanks,” and both Chowder and Nursey make noises of agreement.

“Oh, shoot.” Bitty shuts the fridge. “We’re out up here, I’ll be right back.”

As soon as he’s out of the kitchen, Ransom puts his elbows on the table and leans towards Jack.

“What the fuck’s going on?”

“With what?”

Ransom side-eyes the others at the table. “Okay, boys, pretend you’re not hearing this.” He leans back in. “What’s up with you and Bits?”

He smiles down at his wine. “Nothing.” Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Cam looking at him.

“ _Nothing_ my absolutely perfect ass,” Ransom laughs. “You are so fucking gone on that kid that it’s not even funny. I don’t think you’ve stopped touching him for a second since you’ve been here.”

“No idea what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, come on.” Nursey leans in just like Ransom is. “Not to fan this fire, but he’s texting you, like, every second of the day. You’ve got _no_ idea?”

Bitty comes back into the kitchen with a giant armful of beer. “As soon as you stop talking in normal voices, I know you’re doin’ some serious gossip.” He shoves most of the beer into the fridge and balances four cans in his arms to bring back to the table. “And, since it stopped when I came back in, I can only _assume_ y’all were talking smack about me.”

Jack pretends to be offended. “We would never.” Bitty laughs and hits him again, which earns Jack a _look_ from everyone.

“I don’t even want to know.” Bitty sits back down and Jack’s arm immediately goes over the back of his chair again. Ransom rolls his eyes.

 

Later, despite offerings from the boys, Bitty insists on doing the dishes. And Jack insists on helping him, stooping over the sink to rinse.

“I still can’t believe you’re here,” Bitty says, quietly, trying to keep out of earshot of the boys in the living room, which isn’t difficult because they’re yelling, more than a little drunk, and watching NFL highlights. “You said you couldn’t come down ‘til next month.”

“I thought I wouldn’t. But they like to give us time off around Thanksgiving, I guess. Or, American Thanksgiving. So. Why not.” He looks quickly out the kitchen door, then bends down and kisses the top of Bitty’s head. “I like bugging you.”

_“God_ ,” Bitty laughs. “You’re so—what’s _up_ with you?” He brushes against Jack’s hip, looks warily over his shoulder. “You’re so touchy.”

“Am not.” He wraps his fingers around Bitty’s wrist. “You’re just delirious, with all that wine.”

_“Jack._ Someone’s gonna see.”

“So what?”

Bitty huffs and drops the dish he was holding, wipes his hands on his apron and turns to face him. _“So what_ , says the one who wanted to keep it quiet.” He runs his fingers down Jack’s forearm. “I mean, I’m ... if you _want_ to, I’d be happy to, you know. Start telling people. But you’ve never been like this when you visit, we did the pull-out couch and everything. Did something ...”

Jack looks out the kitchen door again, then back at Bitty.

“Dunno.” He wraps his hand around the back of his neck, thumb brushing his freshly-buzzed hair. “Maybe I want people to know you have a boyfriend.”

Bitty raises his eyebrows. “Wh—really?”

“Yeah.”

“Why _now?”_

“Does it matter?”

“No, of _course_ not, I’m so, so thrilled, I just can’t imagine why you—” He stops. “Um. Okay, this is stretch, but ... did someone tell you about ... how someone asked me out?”

Before Jack thinks it through, he says, “Cam?” and Bitty’s eyes get big.

“Yeah, what—” His hands come up to cover a giant, widening grin. “Oh my _God,_ Jack, tell me you did not come here to assert dominance over me.”

“Uh ...”

“In the face of a _nineteen-year-old boy!”_

“Not _dominance_ ...”

“Oh my God, you big fuckin’ baby!” Bitty laughs and puts his arms around Jack’s neck and tugs him down. “You big, macho idiot, you’re _jealous_.”

“I’m not _jealous_ , I just—”

“Wanna make sure no one touches your defenseless, itty bitty boyfriend while you’re out there bein’ a big, strong hockey man?”

“You’re normal size—”

Bitty kisses him mid word, laughing against his lips, winding arms around his neck, and Jack surges into him and wraps his hands around his waist, lets Bitty dig his hands into his hair, and he forgets where he is, forgets his sudsy hands and lets his eyes fall shut.

Someone yelps and something tin hits the floor. They look up and Cam’s standing in the kitchen doorway, jaw dropped, an empty beer can at his feet.

“Oh my God, I’m so, so sorry, I didn’t—”

Ransom comes sprinting up behind him and all but tackles Cam.

“Oh my fucking God, I _knew it!_ You straight up _lied to my face,_ Jack— _Nurse! Get in here!_ They’re _making out!”_

Jack laughs and buries his face in Bitty’s shoulder and drags him closer.

“Um—there was probably a better way to do this,” Bitty laughs nervously, not sure where on Jack he should have his hands. Nursey piles in behind Ransom, then Chowder, screaming, and Bitty shouts into the now raucous living room, “Nobody _dare_ tweet or Facebook about this or so help me God! You’re off the team!”

Nursey digs his chin into Dex’s shoulder. “Says the biggest liar in the world. _I’m too busy for boys,_ ” he says in Bitty’s accent. “No chill, Bits. We’re so disappointed.”

“Real, real disappointed.”

“I’m texting Shitty.”

“You guys are _dead.”_

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i just love the idea of new frogs being totally smitten with bitty like 'who's this adorable little guy wtf how is he single'........


	6. en français

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bitty forgets that one of the new frogs can speak French. He Skypes Jack.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> short one! following bitty's tweets about his language requirement. i'm so glad i'm finally writing for something where someone canonically speaks french, i never thought knowing it would come in handy.

 

One of the new frogs, Gabriel, is from Québec, and none of the older guys on the team will tell him why they find that so amusing.

He likes the team, and it’s nice that they have their frat house to hang out in, a place where they can all congregate. They’ve taken a shining to him—and again, he’s not sure if it’s the Québec thing; that one Senior, Ransom, is also Canadian, so he thinks maybe it’s that—and he gets to hang out there often enough. He likes Eric Bittle a lot, the tiny blond Junior that lives upstairs, who always bakes pies with the actual _purpose_ of sharing them, which Gabriel, who grew up with five siblings, has never really heard of before. He doesn’t think he’s met someone so genuinely enthusiastic about everything, always, and it’s nice. Bittle made him a sack lunch on the first day of class, him and the other frogs. There was a mini pie. It was _so good._

On a cold afternoon between classes, Gabriel’s alone in the Haus with Bittle, who he thinks is sitting at the kitchen table Skyping someone, because he’s talking, and he can hear a tinny male voice coming through laptop speakers. Gabriel’s in the living room and not technically eavesdropping, but the TV isn’t on and everything’s quiet, so, maybe he is. Whoever Bittle’s talking to doesn’t have his thick southern accent, so it can’t be his father, so Gabriel isn’t sure who it is. Some friend, probably.

Whoever it is is talking about cooking, and then Bittle says, “It’s so funny to picture you cooking.”

“Believe it or not, I did have to function as a human adult before I met you.”

“I know! It’s just weird to think about, I never saw you cook.”

“We had a dining hall.”

“That stuff is _awful!”_

“It was food.”

“I’ve never seen anyone eat so purely for utility as you do. You’re ridiculous.”

“Well, I don’t have your pies anymore, so. It’s good that I don’t eat for fun.”

“I can send you another.”

“Please don’t, my trainer’s gonna start sending you angry, official emails.”

_Pies?_ Gabriel things. _Dining hall?_ An old teammate. Now he’s curious. He hears the other guys, Ransom and Holster and Bitty and others, always talking about people he never met, Seniors who used to be on the team and graduated. It sounds like there’s a lot of history there, like they were all best friends.

Wait, _trainer?_ Who’s he talking to?

“Jack, please. I can handle some silly trainer. And besides, do they screen your mail? Raid your apartment for sweets? You’re a grown man.”

_Jack._ Oh my God, is he talking to Jack Zimmermann? Gabriel had heard that he went to Samwell, and he was always crushed that he would start university during the fall right _after_ Jack graduated. He’s always wanted to meet him: he’s a provincial sports hero, especially now that he’s finally playing in the NHL, although everyone’s upset that he’s not playing for the Canadiens, but he says in interviews sometimes that he might someday. All of Québec is kind of waiting.

“A grown man with a strict diet plan. If I eat like, three pies a week, they’re gonna notice. When I get fat.”

“As if. I don’t think you could get an ounce of fat on you.”

They’re quiet for a second. Gabriel’s ears prick up. Would it be too ‘fan boy’ to slip into the kitchen and try to worm his way into an introduction? God, that would be cool. He wonders if Jack ever comes to visit. Could he _meet_ him someday? Oh my God, could he _skate_ with him? That would be exciting. That would be the _most exciting._ He’d be bragging to his dad about it until he was thirty.

“How’s your French going?” he hears Jack ask, a teasing lilt to his voice. Gabriel smiles. Bittle started taking French this semester, and hearing him stutter earnestly through it has been one of the greater sources of joy in Gabriel’s life at Samwell thus far. Bittle isn’t bad at it, exactly, but hearing someone with such a thick accent try to force himself into another one is very, very funny. But he _is_ learning, at least.

_“Mal,”_ Bittle says, and Jack laughs.

“C'est pas vrai. T'essayes. en un an tu sauras parler comme un pro.”

_“Ugh,_ you talk so fast. Are you making fun of me?”

“Ouais. Veux-tu parler à mon pére, à nouveau?”

“Oh my God, I got that— _no, Jack,_ once was bad enough, you jerk.”

“It was funny.”

“For _you!”_

“And him.”

“You’re both awful.”

“Tu l’aimes.”

Bittle snorts. “Yeah. I do.”

They’re quiet for another little while, and Gabriel can hear chair legs squeaking at the kitchen table, papers rustling. Then Jack says, “Je dois aller.”

“What?”

“I’ve gotta go.”

“Oh. What was that? Je ...”

“Je doit, aller. Doit, like ... to have to, must.”

“Oh! Oh, cool, okay.” Bittle sighs again. More shuffling. “But, you’re good? Everything’s good?”

“I’m great. But I’ve really gotta go. Sorry.” Their voices have gotten softer. Gabriel feels bad for listening, but Bittle _does_ know he’s here; he got a glass of water a half an hour ago. He’s debating going in there to try to introduce himself to Jack before it’s too late when Jack says, “Je t’aime,” and he drops the pen he was holding.

Bittle laughs once, softly, and says, “Je t’aime aussi,” more smoothly than he’s said anything else.

“Je t’aime plus.”

_“Ha!_ Gross, get out of here, you sap.”

_Christ,_ he had no idea! He can’t go over there now! No one mentioned that Bittle was dating Jack Zimmermann? That they’re _in love?_ God, he doesn’t think he was supposed to know this. He hasn’t heard anything in the press about Jack being gay, or whatever—he would have remembered that. _Everyone_ would have remembered that. He tries to figure out if he can grab his things and slip out of the house before Bittle gets off the call, listening to his _apparently private_ conversation with his _apparently boyfriend._ They’ve only known each other for a couple weeks and there are almost a dozen frogs on the team right now—maybe Bittle forgot he can speak French, and he thought he was being sly?

“I’m going, I’m going.”

“Talk to you soon?”

“Yeah. Good luck on your game tomorrow, text me.”

“Will do. Bye, Jack.”

“Bye.”

It’s too late to leave now. In a panic, Gabriel grabs his earphones, jams them in, and turns his music up. If he hasn’t heard about this by now, he probably isn’t supposed to know, which would make sense; the media would have a field day, month, _year_ if they found out Jack Zimmermann was dating some twenty-year-old _male_ college student. 

He can’t hear anything over his music and hunches back over his school work. Some time later, Bittle comes out of the kitchen and startles at seeing him, but when he yanks his earbud out and music pours loudly from it, Bittle relaxes.

“Nothing!” he says cheerfully. “There’ll be pie here in a bit if you’re sticking around.”

 

 

Over the next few days, Gabriel figures that there’s no way the older guys don’t know about Jack and Bittle. They obviously met and started dating at Samwell, while they played together, and if everyone was so close back then, then it _must_ be a kind of ‘open secret,’ where their friends know. He can’t imagine anyone keeping anything from Ransom and Holster. So one morning, he intercepts Ransom and Holster on their way to Faber.

“Oh, Gabe, sup.”

“Nothing! Good, it’s good.” He clears his throat. There’s no easy way to slide into this, really, besides an awkward conversation that starts with _so, Jack Zimmermann used to go here?_ and dances around the topic until someone also brings up Bittle, and he doesn’t have that much time, and he doesn’t know where Bittle is and doesn’t want him to show up halfway through this. He wants to make sure they know he’s okay with it, so he panics and says, “Did Jack Zimmermann and Bittle start dating while he was still at Samwell, or ...?”

He didn’t expect Ransom and Holster to stop walking entirely, or stare at him like he’s insane. Is this a really taboo topic?

“Did they _what?”_ Ransom laughs.

“Did they date,” Gabriel says again, “while they were here. ‘Cause Jack just graduated, right? Or ...” They’re still staring at him. “... Was it ... after? He graduated? Okay, _what?”_

“Jack and Bitty aren’t dating, bro.”

Okay, he didn’t expect that.

“What? Aren’t they?”

Holster shakes his head hard. “No way. I mean, we always kind of thought, like, maybe they were into each other? But there’s no _way_ we were gonna ask.”

“Jack would beat our ass into next year.”

“Aw, naw, he wouldn’t. But it would have been awkward as _fuck.”_ Holster bumps him. “But, c’mon, we gotta get going.”

“I get that, though,” Ransom sighs. “They’d be cute as hell together. I’m pretty sure they were all about each other and honestly, we sort of tried to get them together, but it never materialized.” 

They start walking again and Gabriel tries to figure out how to best word this.

“Okay, but, I think they are, though. Together.”

“What are you _talking_ about?”

“Promise not to tell Bittle?”

“Sure, sure, but _what?”_

“Okay, so ... I was in the Haus the other day.” Gabriel fiddles with the strap of his duffle bag. “Bittle was on Skype with him in the kitchen, and I don’t think he knew I could hear him, or something, and he—before they hung up, they said, like, that they love each other? In parting?”

“Okay, okay, okay, hold the fuck up.” Ransom’s arm shoots out and slaps Holster across the chest and they stop walking again. “We’re gonna be late, deal with it. Gabe, did you _actually hear this?”_

“With your own two ears? Honest to God?”

“Yes! I was right there!”

“Bitty and Jack both said, ‘I love you’? Out loud? To _each other?”_

“Yeah, like, I know you’re not great with English yet, buddy, you sure?”

“It was in _French,”_ Gabe snaps, “Thank you very much.”

“You’re joking.”

“No! They were talking about Bittle learning French, and stuff, so they said some stuff back and forth and Jack was making fun of him, and then he said he had to go, and he said _je t’aime_. That’s _I love you.”_

“And Bitty?”

“He said _je t’aime aussi._ I love you too.”

“You’re fucking with us right now, bro. You’re fucking around.”

“I’m not, Christ! I thought you knew!”

“No we didn’t fucking _know,_ oh my God!” Holster grins and grabs Gabriel’s shoulders. “You’re sure? One hundred percent sure? There’s no other way that could be interpreted?”

“Not really! Not at the end of a call, and like, unless they’re whispering _I like you,_ I’m pretty sure they meant _love. Je t’aime_ is always love. Jack said, ‘I love you more,’ for fuck’s sake, _plus._ ”

Both of them burst out laughing, and Gabriel can’t tell if he has just done something very good or very bad. “Oh my God, he did not. Jack did not say that.”

_“Yes!_ I’m not—God, I shouldn’t have said anything, I don’t think he remembered I speak French, I’m ...”

“No, Gabe, shut up, this is the best!” Ransom grabs him this time and shakes him back and forth. “This is—the best thing—to ever happen—to our team!”

“Oh my God, bro, how are we going to let them know? Holy fuck, this could be so good.”

“Guys we—we’re gonna be late for practice, c’mon, please don’t tell Bittle, we’ve gotta go!”

“We’ll think of something,” Holster says knowingly. “This is gonna be good.”

 

 

Gabriel avoids the Haus that day and tries his hardest not to be around when Ransom and Holster confront Bittle about what he overheard. He feels awful, but if they’re all such good friends, there’s no way they’ll _out_ Jack in any professional capacity, right? They’re just being troublemakers, but he doesn’t want Bittle to be humiliated, either. Not that dating Jack Zimmermann is in _any way_ embarrassing. Honestly, it’s pretty fucking impressive; Gabriel’s not into guys (that he knows of) but anyone with eyes can tell Jack Zimmermann is a good looking dude, and an unbelievable hockey player, and famous, and rich. As long as he’s not around when they confront him.

 

 

But, of course, he is. They’re all crammed into their table at the dining hall after practice the next morning and he knows it’s going to happen, he just _knows,_ because Ransom and Holster can’t stop sniggering and are practically vibrating with excitement. He slinks down in his seat and focuses on his eggs and prays they don’t mention him by name.

Bittle sits down with his breakfast and of course the open seat is right across from Ransom and Holster, as if they’d planned it. Breakfast continues uneventfully with the usual chirps and roughhousing, so Gabriel thinks that maybe he was wrong.

But then Ransom gets up to get seconds. And he stands, looks down at Holster and says, “Je t’aime.”

And Holster says, “Je t’aime aussi.”

And Bittle stops, mid forkful. Everyone around them stops.

“What?” Nursey says, mouth full. “Since when do you guys know French?”

“Oh, you know,” Holster starts, trying to keep a straight face. “Just something we’re trying out, you know? Bits has been so into it, and it’s pretty inspiring.”

“Yeah, but, Bitty, maybe you can help us out.” Ransom’s full-on grinning now and Bittle’s eyes are so, so wide. “We’re still learning, right? So, what did we just say? So we can make sure it’s right.”

“Uh ...” Bittle stalls. Gabriel leans forward to look at him and he’s obviously aware that something’s up, he’s blushing up to his ears. “It’s ... well, whatever, you said it right, I mean—”

“Is it something two totally platonic bros might say to each other?”

_“Um.”_

Ransom and Holster can barely contain their laughter at this point. “Yeah, like, at the end of a Skype call? A Skype call that one might have with their former team captain, for example?”

Bittle turns absolutely _scarlet._ “How—how do you—”

Gabriel can’t take it anymore.

“Bittle! I’m _so, so sorry_ I thought they knew, I didn’t mean to say anything and I am so so sorry!” 

Bittle whips around to look at him. “Gabriel, you—” He slaps his hands over his mouth. “Oh my God. You—you can speak French, you— _you were in the living room, oh my God!”_

_“I’m sorry!”_ Gabriel wails over the sound of Ransom and Holster laughing so hard that half the dining hall is looking. Bittle buries his face in his hands as Ransom and Holster explain the story to the rest of the team, and everyone either starts screaming or laughing in disbelief, or clambering around the table to slap Bittle on the back in congratulations. Holster’s already on the phone to Jack.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thankssss


End file.
